THE  GIFT  OF 

MAY  TREAT  MORRISON 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

ALEXANDER  F  MORRISON 


THE     DOCTOR'S 
RECREATION    SERIES 


CHARLES    WELLS    MOULTON 

General  Editor 


VOLUME      TWO 


tMMMimwaMM 


IIWIMII     111! 


CAc    DOCTOR'S 
R  E  b    1    AMP 


TT 


t  .'.    liiE   DOCTOR'S 

daily  lipp 

The    Village  Doctor 


KiXK. 


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AKRON,  O. 


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itf^'fiUjri^'jF:rj:f*«rAtaiUftA  > ' '  ^•id^>:b4K'UM^«An«ny9vko:  jr:i^.y  -\''.  -.'..■'^Vxilv^C'  ;«7<Af%-.' 


^he    DOCTOR'S 
RED    LAMP 


fcwrki 


A  BOOK  OF  SHORT 
STORIES  CONCERN- 
ING THE  DOCTOR'S 
DAILY   LIFE. 


SELECTED  BY 

Cbarles  Mella  ^oulton. 


1904 


THE  SAALFIELD  PUBLISHING  CO. 
Chicago        akron,  o.       new  York 


Copyright,   1904, 

BY 

THE    SAALFIELD    PUBLISHING   COMPANY 


THE 
WERNER     COUPANV 


fan 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


The  Surgeon's  Miracle,    -    -    -    Joseph  KirUand. 

The  Doctors  of  Hoyland,      -    -    -      Conan  Doyle. 

Doctor  Santos  :    A  Character  Sketch,    -    - 

Gustave  Morales. 

The  Curing  of  Kate  Negley,    -    Lucy  S.  Furman. 

A  Doctor's  Story, E.M.Davy. 

John  Bartine's  Watch:    The  Doctor's  Story, 

_ Ambrose  Bierce. 

Two  Wills, Anonymous. 

A  Doctor  of  the  Old  School  (A  General 

Practitioner),      -    -    -    -    Ian  Maclaren. 

The  Various  Tempers  of  Grandmother  Gregg, 

Butli  McEnery  Stuart. 

Dr.  Barrere, Margaret  Oliphant. 

A  Will  and  a  Way,     -    -  Margaret  Sutton  Briscoe. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 
Dk.  Armstrong, D.  L.  B.  S. 

Dr.  Wygram's  Son, G.  M.  McCrie. 

On  the  India  Frontier,    -    Henry  Seton  Merriman. 

Doctor  Greenfield,    -    -    -    Lady  Mahel  Howard. 

Dr.  Gladman:    A  Sketch  of  Colonial  Life, 

Gentleman's  Magazine. 

Dr.  Wrightson's  Enemy,    -    -    Hon.  Elenor  Eden. 

The  Coming  of  the  Ship,    -   Maud  Wilder  Goodwin. 

Dr.  Pennington's  Country  Practice,  Butler  Monroe. 

The  Doctor  :    An  Old  Virginia  Fox-Hunter, 

A.  G.  Bradley. 

The  Doctor's  Front  Yard,    -    -    -    B.  E.  Sessions. 

A  Gentle  Manla.c,      -      George  Edgar  Montgomery. 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

The  Village  Doctor* Frontispiece 

From  the  Painting  by  H.  Krettschmer. 

A   Spoonful   Every    Hour  * 88 

From  the  Painting  by  Ph.  Fleischer. 

Vaccinating   the   Baby* 174 

From  the  Painting  by  Ed.  Hamman. 

A  Violent  Fall 256 

From  the  Painting  by  Adolf  Echtler. 
*  Original  by  the  courtesy  of  William  Wood  &  Co.,  New  York. 


PREFACE 


TN  PREPARING  this  book  of  short  stories  concerning 
1  the  doctor's  daily  life,  the  editor  has  availed  him- 
self of  the  counsel  of  his  staff  of  editorial  associates, 
and  he  trusts  that  this  volume  will  prove  equally  ac- 
ceptable as  the  other  works  in  The  Doctor's  Recrea- 
tion Series. 

The  stories  themselves  are  offered  without  critical 
comment.  Many  of  them  are  old  favorites.  Many  of 
them  are  by  well-known  and  standard  authors.  All 
relate  some  episode  in  the  doctor's  life  in  a  manner 
both  striking  and  original.  We  believe  this  is  the 
first  volume   of  its  kind  ever  offered  to  the  public. 

For  the  courtesy  of  copyright  privileges  extended 
we  return  thanks  to  S.  S.  McClure  Co.,  The  Century 
Co.,  Harper  &  Brothers,  J.  B.  Lippincott  Co.,  Little, 
Brown  &  Co.,  Macmillan  &  Co.,  John  Brisben  Walker, 
Joseph  Kirkland,  Dr.  Conan  Doyle,  Lucy  S:  Furman, 
Ambrose  Bierce,  Rev.  John  Watson,  Ruth  McEnery 
Stuart,  Margaret  Sutton  Briscoe,  Henry  Seton  Merriman, 
and  Maud  Wilder  Goodwin. 

C.  W.  M. 
Buffalo,  March  18,  I904. 


THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 


I. 

THE  SURGEON'S  MIRACLE. 

OOE  Abe  Dodge." 

That's  what  they  called  him,  though  he 
wasn't  any  poorer  than  other  folks— not  so 
poor  as  some.  How  could  he  be  poor,  work  as  he  did 
and  steady  as  he  was  ?  Worth  a  whole  grist  of  such 
bait  as  his  brother,  Ephe  Dodge,  and  yet  they  never 
called  Ephe  poor — whatever  worse  name  they  might 
call  him.  When  Ephe  was  off  at  a  show  in  the  vil- 
lage, Abe  was  following  the  plough,  driving  a  straight 
furrow,  though  you  wouldn't  have  thought  it  to  see 
the  way  his  nose  pointed.  In  winter,  when  Ephe  was 
taking  the  girls  to  singing  school  or  spelling  bee  or 
some  other  foolishness— out  till  after  nine  o'clock  at 
night,  like  as  not— Abe  was  hanging  over  the  fire, 
holding  a  book  so  the  light  would  shine,  first  on  one 
page  and  then  on  the  other,  and  he  turning  his  head 
as  he  turned  the  book,  and  reading  first  with  one  eye 
and  then  with  the  other. 

There,  the  murder's  out!  Abe  couldn't  read  with 
both  eyes  at  once.  If  Abe  looked  straight  ahead  he 
couldn't  see  the  furrow— nor  anythin'  else,  for  that 
matter.  His  best  friend  couldn't  say  but  what  Abe 
Dodge  was  the  cross-eyedest  cuss  that  ever  was.  Why, 
if  you  wanted  to  see  Abe,  you'd  stand  in  front  of 
him ;  but  if  you  wanted  Abe  to  see  you,  you  'd  got  to 
stand  behind  him,  or  pretty  near  it.  Homely  ?  Well, 
if  you  mean  downright  "humbly,"  that's  what  he 
was.  When  one  eye  was  in  use  the  other  was  out  of 
sight,  all  except  the  white  of  it.    Humblv  ain't  no 

(7) 


8  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

ri^Bie  for  it:  The  g-u'ls  used  to  say  he  had  to  wake  up 
m  .the  Dight  to  rest  his  face,  it  was  so  humbly.  In 
'•school  yoti'd  ought  to  have  seen  him  look  down  at  his 
copybook.  He  had  to  cant  his  head  clear  over  and 
cock  up  his  chin  till  it  pointed  out  of  the  winder  and 
down  the  road.  You'd  really  ought  to  have  seen  him, 
you'd  have  died.  Head  of  the  class,  too,  right  along; 
just  as  near  to  the  head  as  Ephe  was  to  the  foot ;  and 
that's  sayin'  a  good  deal.  But  to  see  him  at  his  desk! 
He  looked  for  all  the  world  like  a  week-old  chicken, 
peekin'  at  a  tumble-bug!  And  him  a  grown  man, 
too,  for  he  stayed  to  school  winters  so  long  as  there 
was  anything  more  the  teacher  could  teach  him.  You 
see,  there  wasn't  anything  to  draw  him  away;  no  girl 
wouldn't  look  at  him— lucky,  too,  seein'  the  way  he 
looked. 

Well,  one  term  there  was  a  new  teacher  come— 
regular  high-up  girl,  down  from  Chicago.  As  bad 
luck  would  have  it,  Abe  wasn't  at  school  the  first 
week— hadn't  got  through  his  fall  work.  So  she  got 
to  know  all  the  scholars,  and  they  was  awful  tickled 
with  her— everybody  always  was  that  knowed  her. 
The  first  day  she  come  in  and  saw  Abe  at  his  desk, 
she  thought  he  was  squintin'  for  fun,  and  she  upped 
and  laughed  right  out.  Some  of  the  scholars  laughed 
too,  at  first ;  but  most  of  'em,  to  do  'em  justice,  was  a 
leetle  took  back;  young  as  they  was,  and  cruel  by 
nature.  (Young  folks  is  most  usually  always  cruel— 
don't  seem  to  know  no  better.) 

Well,  right  in  the  middle  of  the  hush,  Abe  gathered 
up  his  books  and  upped  and  walked  outdoors,  lookin' 
right  ahead  of  him,  and  consequently  seeing  the 
handsome  young  teacher  unbeknown  to  her. 

She  was  the  worst  cut  up  you  ever  did  see ;  but  what 
could  she  do  or  say  ?  Go  and  tell  him  she  thought  he 
was  makin'  up  a  face  for  fun?  The  girls  do  say  that 
come  noon-spell,  when  she  found  out  about  it,  she 
cried— just  fairly  cried.  Then  she  tried  to  be  awful 
nice  to  Abe's  ornery  brother  Ephe,  and  Ephe  he  was 


H 


THE  SURGEON'S  MIRACLE.  9 

tickled  most  to  death;  but  that  didn't  do  Abe  any 
good— Ephe  was  jest  ornery  enough  to  take  care  that 
Abe  shouldn't  get  any  comfort  out  of  it.  They  do 
say  she  sent  messages  to  Abe,  and  Ephe  never  deliv- 
ered them,  or  else  twisted  'em  so  as  to  make  things 
worse  and  worse.  Mebbe  so.  mebbe  not— Ephe  was 
ornery  enough  for  it. 

'Course  the  school-ma'am  she  was  boardin'  round, 
and  pretty  soon  it  come  time  to  go  to  ol'  man  Dodge's, 
and  she  went;  but  no  Abe  could  she  ever  see.  He 
kept  away,  and  as  to  meals,  he  never  set  by,  but  took 
a  bite  off  by  himself  when  he  could  get  a  chance. 
('Course  his  mother  favored  him,  being  he  was  so 
cussed  unlucky.)  Then  when  the  folks  was  all  to 
bed,  he'd  come  in  and  poke  up  the  fire  and  peek  into 
his  book,  but  first  one  side  and  then  the  other,  same 
as  ever. 

Now  what  does  school-ma'am  do  but  come  down  one 
night  when  she  thought  he  was  a-bed  and  asleep,  and 
catch  him  unawares.  Abe  knowed  it  was  her,  quick 
as  he  heard  the  rustle  of  her  dress,  but  there  wasn't 
no  help  for  it,  so  he  just  turned  his  head  away  and 
covered  his  cross-eyes  with  his  hands,  and  she  pitched 
in.  What  she  said  I  don't  know,  but  Abe  he  never 
said  a  word;  only  told  her  he  didn't  blame  her,  not  a 
mite;  he  knew  she  couldn't  help  it— no  more  than  he 
could.  Then  she  asked  him  to  come  back  to  school, 
and  he  answered  to  please  excuse  him.  After  a  bit 
she  asked  him  if  he  wouldn't  come  to  oblige  her,  and 
he  said  he  calculated  he  was  obligin'  her  more  by 
stayin*  away. 

Well,  come  to  that  she  didn't  know  what  to  say  or 
do,  so,  woman-like,  she  upped  and  cried ;  and  then  she 
said  he  hurt  her  feelings.  And  the  upshot  of  it  was 
he  said  he'd  come,  and  they  shook  hands  on  it. 

Well,  Abe  kept  his  word  and  took  up  schoolin'  as 
if  nothing  had  happened;  and  such  schoolin'  as  there 
was  that  winter!  I  don't  believe  any  regular  academy 
had  more  learnin'  and  teachin'  that  winter  than  what 


10  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

that  district  school  did.  Seemed  as  if  all  the  scholars 
had  turned  over  a  new  leaf.  Even  wild,  ornery,  no- 
account  Ephe  Dodge  couldn't  help  but  get  ahead 
some— but  then  he  was  crazy  to  get  the  school-ma'am; 
and  she  never  paid  no  attention  to  him,  just  went  with 
Abe.  Abe  was  teachin'  her  mathematics,  seeing  that 
was  the  one  thing  where  he  knowed  more  than  she  did 
—outside  of  farmin'.  Folks  used  to  say  that  if  Ephe 
had  Abe's  head,  or  Abe  had  Ephe's  face,  the  school- 
ma'am  would  have  half  of  the  Dodge  farm  whenever 
ol'  man  Dodge  got  through  with  it;  but  neither  of 
them  did  have  what  the  other  had,  and  so  there  it  was, 
you  see. 

Well,  you've  heard  of  Squire  Caton,  of  course; 
Judge  Caton,  they  call  him  since  he  got  to  be  Judge 
of  the  Supreme  Court— and  Chief  Justice  at  that. 
"Well,  he  had  a  farm  down  there  not  far  from  Fox 
River,  and  when  he  was  there  he  was  just  a  plain 
farmer  like  the  rest  of  us,  though  up  in  Chicago  he 
was  a  high-up  lawyer,  leader  of  the  bar.  Now  it  so 
happened  that  a  young  doctor  named  Brainard— 
Daniel  Brainard— had  just  come  to  Chicago  and  was 
startin'  in,  and  Squire  Caton  was  help  in'  him,  gave 
him  desk-room  in  his  office  and  made  him  known  to 
the  folks— Kinzies,  and  Butterfields,  and  Ogdens,  and 
Hamiltons,  and  Arnolds,  and  all  of  those  folks— 
about  all  there  was  in  Chicago  in  those  days.  Brain- 
ard had  been  to  Paris— Paris,  France,  not  Paris,  Illi- 
nois, you  understand— and  knew  all  the  doctorin' 
there  was  to  know  then.  Well,  come  spring.  Squire 
Caton  had  Doc  Brainard  down  to  visit  him,  and  they 
shot  ducks  and  geese  and  prairie  chickens  and  some 
wild  turkeys  and  deer,  too— game  was  just  swarmin' 
at  that  time.  All  the  while  Caton  was  doin'  what  law 
business  there  was  to  do;  and  Brainard  thought  he 
ought  to  be  doin'  some  doctorin'  to  keep  his  hand  in, 
so  he  asked  Caton  if  there  wasn't  any  cases  he  could 
take  up— surgery  cases  especially  he  hankered  after, 
seein'  he  had  more  carving  tools  than  you  could  shake 


THE  SURGEON'S  MIRACLE.  11 

a  Btick  at.  He  asked  him  particularly  if  there  wasn't 
anybody  he  could  treat  for  ' '  strabismus. ' '  The  squire 
hadn  't  heard  of  anybody  dying  of  that  complaint ;  but 
when  the  doctor  explained  that  strabismus  was 
French  for  cross-eyes,  he  naturally  thought  of  poor 
Abe  Dodge,  and  the  young  doctor  was  right  up  on  his 
ear.  He  smelled  the  battle  afar  off ;  and  'most  before 
you  could  say  Jack  Robinson  the  squire  and  the  doc- 
tor were  on  horseback  and  down  to  the  Dodge  farm, 
tool-chest  and  all. 

Weir,  it  so  happened  that  nobody  was  at  home  but 
Abe  and  Ephe,  and  it  didn't  take  but  few  words 
before  Abe  was  ready  to  set  right  down,  then  and 
there,  and  let  anybody  do  anything  he  was  a  mind  to 
with  his  misf ortunate  eyes.  No,  he  wouldn  't  wait  till 
the  old  folks  come  home;  he  didn't  want  to  ask  no 
advice;  he  wasn't  afraid  of  pain,  nor  of  what  any- 
body could  do  to  his  eyes— couldn't  be  made  any 
worse  than  they  were,  whatever  you  did  to  'em.  Take 
'em  out  and  boil  'em  and  put  'em  back  if  you  had  a 
mind  to,  only  go  to  work.  He  knew  he  was  of  age  and 
he  guessed  he  was  master  of  his  own  eyes— such  as 
they  were. 

Well,  there  wasn't  nothing  else  to  do  but  go  ahead. 
The  doctor  opened  up  his  killing  tools  and  tried  to 
keep  Abe  from  seeing  them;  but  Abe  he  just  come 
right  over  and  peeked  at  'em,  handled  'em,  and  called 
'em  **  splendid  "—and  so  they  were,  barrin'  havin* 
them  used  on  your  own  flesh  and  blood  and  bones. 

Then  they  got  some  cloths  and  a  basin,  and  one 
thing  an'  another,  and  set  Abe  right  down  in  a  chair. 
(No  such  thing  as  chloroform  in  those  days,  you'll 
remember.)  And  Squire  Caton  was  to  hold  an  instru- 
ment that  spread  the  eyelid  wide  open,  while  Ephe 
was  to  hold  Abe's  head  steady.  First  touch  of  the 
lancet,  and  first  spirt  of  blood,  and  what  do  you 
think  t  That  ornery  Ephe  wilted,  and  fell  flat  on  the 
floor  behind  the  chair! 

** Squire,"  said  Brainard,  "step  around  and  hold  his 
head.'* 


12  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

"1  can  hold  my  own  head,"  says  Abe,  as  steady  as 
you  please.  But  Squire  Caton,  he  straddled  over 
Ephe  and  held  his  head  between  his  arms,  and  the  two 
handles  of  the  eye-spreader  with  his  hands. 

It  was  all  over  in  half  a  minute,  and  then  Abe  he 
leaned  forward,  and  shook  the  blood  off  his  eye-lashes, 
and  looked  straight  out  of  that  eye  for  the  first  time 
since  he  was  born.    And  the  first  words  he  said  were : 

' '  Thank  the  Lord !    She 's  mine ! ' ' 

About  that  time  Ephe  he  crawled  out-doors,  sick  as 
a  dog;  and  Abe  spoke  up,  says  he : 

"Now  for  the  other  eye,  doctor." 

**0h,"  says  the  doctor,  **we'd  better  take  another 
day  for  that." 

"All  right,"  says  Abe;  "if  your  hands  are  tired  of 
euttin',  you  can  make  another  job  of  it.  My  face 
ain't  tired  of  bein'  cut,  I  can  tell  you." 

"Well,  if  you're  game,  I  am." 

So,  if  you'll  believe  me,  they  just  set  to  work  and 
operated  on  the  other  eye,  Abe  holding  his  own  head, 
as  he  said  he  would,  and  the  squire  holding  the 
spreader.  And  when  it  was  all  done,  the  doctor  was 
for  putting  a  bandage  on  to  keep  things  quiet  till  the 
wounds  all  healed  up,  but  Abe  just  begged  for  ona 
eight  of  himself,  and  he  stood  up  and  walked  over  to 
the  clock  and  looked  in  the  glass,  and  says  he : 

"So  that's  the  way  I  look,  is  it?  Shouldn't  have 
Jcnown  my  own  face— never  saw  it  before.  How  long 
must  I  keep  the  bandage  on,  doctor?" 

"Oh,  if  the  eyes  ain't  very  sore  when  you  wake  up 
in  the  morning,  you  can  take  it  off,  if  you'll  be  care- 
ful." 

"Wake  up!  Do  you  s'pose  I  can  sleep  when  such 
a  blessing  has  fallen  on  me?  I'll  lay  still,  but  if  I 
forget  it,  or  you,  for  one  minute  this  night,  I  '11  be  so 
ashamed  of  myself  that  it'll  wake  me  right  up !" 

Then  the  doctor  bound  up  his  eyes  and  the  poor 
boy  said  "Thank  God!"  two  or  three  times,  and  they 
could  see  the  tears  running  down  his  cheeks  from 


THE  SURGEON'S  MIRACLE.  13 

under  the  cloth.    Lord!    It  was  just  as  pitiful  as  a 
broken-winged  bird! 

How  about  the  girl?  Well;  it  was  all  right  for 
Abe— and  all  wrong  for  Ephe— all  wrong  for  Ephe! 
But  that's  all  past  and  gone— past  and  gone.  Folks 
come  for  miles  and  miles  to  see  cross-eyed  Abe  with 
his  eyes  as  straight  as  a  loon's  leg.  Doctor  Brainard 
was  a  great  man  forever  after  in  those  parts.  Every- 
where else,  too,  by  what  I  heard. 

"When  the  doctor  and  the  squire  come  to  go,  Abe 
spoke  up,  blind-folded  as  he  was,  and  says  he : 

"Doc,  how  much  do  you  charge  a  feller  for  savin' 
his  life— making  a  man  out  of  a  poor  wreck— doin' 
what  he  never  thought  could  be  done  but  by  dyin* 
and  goin'  to  kingdom  come?" 

**0h,"  says  Doe  Brainard,  says  he,  "that  ain't 
what  we  look  at  as  pay  practice.  You  didn't  call  me 
in ;  I  come  of  myself,  as  though  it  was  what  we  call  a 
clinic.  If  all  goes  well,  and  if  you  happen  to  have  a 
barrel  of  apples  to  spare,  you  just  send  them  up  to 
Squire  Caton's  house  in  Chicago,  and  I'll  call  over 
and  help  eat  'em." 

What  did  Abe  say  to  that?  Why,  sir,  he  never 
6aid  a  word;  but  they  do  say  the  tears  started  out 
again,  out  from  under  the  bandage  and  down  his 
cheeks.  But  then  Abe  he  had  a  five-year-old  pet  mare 
he'd  raised  from  a  colt— pretty  as  a  picture,  kind  as 
a  kitten,  and  fast  as  split  lightning;  and  next  time 
Doc  come  down  Abe  he  just  slipped  out  to  the  barn 
and  brought  the  mare  round  and  hitched  her  to  the 
gate-post,  and  when  Doc  come  to  be  going,  says  Abe : 
"Don't  forget  your  nag,  doctor;  she's  hitched  at 
the  gate." 

Well,  sir,  even  then  Abe  had  the  hardest  kind  of  a 
time  to  get  Doc  Brainard  to  take  that  mare ;  and  when 
he  did  ride  off,  leadin'  her,  it  wasn't  half  an  hour  be- 
fore back  she  came,  lickety-split.  Doe  said  she  broke 
away  from  him  and  put  for  home,  but  I  always  sus- 
pected he  didn't  have  no  use  for  a  hoss  he  couldn't 


14  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

sell  or  hire  out,  and  couldn  't  afford  to  keep  in  the  vil- 
lage—that was  what  Chicago  was  then.  But  come 
along  towards  fall  Abe  he  took  her  right  up  to  town, 
and  then  the  doctor's  practice  had  growed  so  much 
that  he  was  pretty  glad  to  have  her;  and  Abe  was 
glad  to  have  him  have  her,  seeing  all  that  had  come 
to  him  through  havin'  eyes  like  other  folks— that's  the 
school-ma'am,  I  mean. 

How  did  the  school-ma'am  take  it?  Well,  it  was 
this  way.  After  the  cuttin'  Abe  didn't  show  up  for 
a  few  days,  till  the  inflammation  got  down  and  he'd 
had  some  practice  handlin'  his  eyes,  so  to  speak.  He 
just  kept  himself  to  himself,  enjoying  himself.  He'd 
go  around  doin'  the  chores,  singin'  so  you  could  hear 
him  a  mile.  He  was  always  great  on  singin',  Abe 
was,  though  ashamed  to  go  to  singin '-school  with  the 
rest.  Then,  when  the  poor  boy  began  to  feel  like 
other  folks,  he  went  right  over  to  where  school-ma'am 
happened  to  be  boardin'  round,  and  walked  right  up 
to  her  and  took  her  by  both  hands,  and  looked  her 
straight  in  the  face,  and  said : 

"Do  you  know  me?" 

Well,  she  kind  of  smiled  and  blushed,  and  then  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  pulled  down,  and  she  pulled  one 
hand  away,  and— if  you  believe  me— that  was  the 
third  time  that  girl  cried  that  season,  to  my  certain 
knowledge— and  all  for  nothin'  either  time! 

What  did  she  say?  Why,  she  just  said  she'd  have 
to  begin  all  over  again  to  get  acquainted  with  Abe. 
But  Ephe's  nose  was  out  of  joint,  and  Ephe  knowed 
it  as  well  as  anybody,  Ephe  did.  It  was  Abe's  eyes 
to  Ephe's  nose. 

Married  ?  Oh,  yes,  of  course ;  and  lived  on  the  farm 
as  long  as  the  old  folks  lived,  and  afterwards,  too; 
Ephe  staying  right  along,  like  the  fool  he  always  had 
been.  That  feller  never  did  have  as  much  sense  as  a 
last  year's  bird's  nest. 

Alive  yet  ?  Abe  ?  Well,  no.  Might  have  been  if  it 
hadn  't  been  for  Shiloh.    When  the  war  broke  out  Abe 


THE  SURGEON'S  MIRACLE.  15 

thought  he'd  ought  to  go,  old  as  he  was,  so  he  went 
into  the  Sixth.  Maybe  you've  seen  a  book  written 
about  the  captain  of  Company  K  of  the  Sixth.  It 
was  Company  K  he  went  into— him  and  Ephe.  And 
he  was  killed  at  Shiloh— just  as  it  always  seems  to 
happen.  He  got  killed,  and  his  worthless  brother 
come  home.  Folks  thought  Ephe  would  have  liked  to 
marry  the  widow,  but,  Lord!  she  never  had  no  such 
an  idea !  Such  bait  as  he  was  compared  to  his  brother. 
She  never  chirked  up,  to  speak  of,  and  now  she's  dead 
too,  and  Ephe  he  just  toddles  round,  taking  care  of 
the  children— kind  of  a  he  dry-nurse;  that's  about  all 
he  ever  was  good  for,  anyhow. 

My  name?     Oh,  my  name's  Ephraim— Ephe  they 
call  me,  for  short;  Ephe  Dodge.    Abe  was  my  brother. 

Joseph  Kirkland. 


II. 

THE  DOCTOR'S  OF  HOYLAND. 


PI  R.  JAMES  RIPLEY  was  always  looked  upon 
■^  I  as  an  exceedingly  lucky  dog  by  all  of  the 
^^1  profession  who  knew  him.  His  father  had 
preceded  him  in  a  practice  in  the  village  of  Hoyland, 
in  the  north  of  Hampshire,  and  all  was  ready  for  him 
on  the  very  first  day  that  the  law  allowed  him  to  put 
his  name  at  the  foot  of  a  prescription.  In  a  few 
years  the  old  gentleman  retired  and  settled  on  the 
South  Coast,  leaving  his  son  in  undisputed  possession 
of  the  whole  countryside.  Save  for  Dr.  Horton,  near 
Basingstoke,  the  young  surgeon  had  a  clear  run  of 
six  miles  in  every  direction,  and  took  his  fifteen 
hundred  pounds  a  year ;  though,  as  is  usual  in  country 
practice,  the  stable  swallowed  up  most  of  what  the 
consulting-room  earned. 

Dr.  James  Ripley  was  two  and  thirty  years  of  age, 
reserved,  learned,  unmarried,  with  set,  rather  stern, 
features,  and  a  thinning  of  the  dark  hair  upon  the 
top  of  his  head,  which  was  worth  quite  a  hundred  a 
year  to  him.  He  was  particularly  happy  m  his  man- 
agement of  ladies.  He  had  caught  the  tone  of  bland 
eternness  and  decisive  suavity  which  dominates  with- 
out offending.  Ladies,  however,  were  not  equally 
happy  in  their  management  of  him.  Professionally, 
he  was  always  at  their  service.  Socially,  he  was  a 
drop  of  quicksilver.  In  vain  the  country  mammas 
spread  out  their  simple  lures  in  front  of  him.  Dances 
and  picnics  were  not  to  his  taste,  and  he  preferred 
during  his  scanty  leisure  to  shut  himself  up  in  his 
study,  and  to  bury  himself  in  Virchow's  Archives 
and  the  professional  journals. 

(16) 


THE  DOCTORS  OF  HOYLAND.  17 

Study  was  a  passion  with  him,  and  he  would  have 
none  of  the  rust  which  often  gathers  round  a  country 
practitioner.  It  was  his  ambition  to  keep  his  knowl- 
edge as  fresh  and  bright  as  at  the  moment  when  he 
had  stepped  out  of  the  examination  hall.  He  prided 
himself  on  being  able,  at  a  moment's  notice,  to  rattle 
off  the  seven  ramifications  of  some  obscure  artery,  or 
to  give  the  exact  percentage  of  any  physiological 
compound.  After  a  long  day's  work  he  would  sit  up 
half  the  night  performing  iridectomies  and  extrac- 
tions upon  the  sheep's  eyes  sent  in  by  the  village 
butcher,  to  the  horror  of  his  house-keeper,  who  had 
to  remove  the  debris  next  morning.  His  love  for  his 
work  was  the  one  fanaticism  which  found  a  place  in 
his  dry,  precise  nature. 

It  was  the  more  to  his  credit  that  he  should  keep 
tip  to  date  in  his  knowledge,  since  he  had  no  competi- 
tion to  force  him  to  exertion.  In  the  seven  years  dur- 
ing which  he  had  practised  in  Hoyland,  three  rivals 
had  pitted  themselves  against  him ;  two  in  the  village 
itself,  and  one  in  the  neighboring  hamlet  of  Lower 
Hoyland.  Of  these,  one  had  sickened  and  wasted, 
■being,  as  it  was  said,  himself  the  only  patient  whom 
he  had  treated  during  his  eighteen  months  of  ruraliz- 
ing. A  second  had  bought  a  fourth  share  of  a  Basing- 
stoke practice,  and  had  departed  honorably;  while  a 
third  had  vanished  one  September  night,  leaving  a 
gutted  house  and  an  unpaid  drug  bill  behind  him. 
Since  then  the  district  had  become  a  monopoly,  and 
no  one  had  dared  to  measure  himself  against  the 
established  fame  of  the  Hoyland  doctor. 

It  was,  then,  with  a  feeling  of  some  surprise  and 
considerable  curiosity  that,  on  driving  through  Lower 
Hoyland  one  morning,  he  perceived  that  the  new 
house  at  the  end  of  the  village  was  occupied,  and  that 
a  virgin  brass  plate  glistened  upon  the  swingiag  gate 
which  faced  the  highroad.  He  pulled  up  his  fifty- 
guinea  chestnut  mare,  and  took  a  good  look  at  it. 
"Verrinder  Smith,  M.   D.,"  was  printed  across  it 

2-8 


18  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

very  neat,  small  lettering.  The  last  man  had  had 
letters  half  a  foot  long,  with  a  lamp  like  a  fire  sta- 
tion. Dr.  James  Ripley  noted  the  difference,  and 
deduced  from  it  that  the  newcomer  might  possibly 
prove  a  more  formidable  opponent.  He  w^as  convinced 
of  it  that  evening  when  he  came  to  consult  the  cur- 
rent medical  directory.  By  it  he  learned  that  Dr. 
Verrinder  Smith  was  the  holder  of  superb  degrees, 
that  he  had  studied  with  distinction  at  Edinburgh, 
Paris,  Berlin  and  Vienna;  and,  finally,  that  he  had 
been  awarded  a  gold  medal  and  the  Lee  Hopkins 
scholarship  for  original  research  in  recognition  of  an 
exhaustive  inquiry  into  the  functions  of  the  anterior 
spinal  nerve  roots.  Dr.  Ripley  passed  his  fingers 
through  his  thin  hair  in  bewilderment  as  he  read  his 
rival's  record.  What  on  earth  could  so  brilliant  a 
man  mean  by  putting  up  his  plate  in  a  little  Hamp- 
shire hamlet? 

But  Dr.  Ripley  furnished  himself  with  an  explana- 
tion to  the  riddle.  No  doubt  Dr.  Verrinder  Smith 
had  simply  come  down  there  in  order  to  pursue  some 
scientific  research  in  peace  and  quiet.  The  plate  was 
up  as  an  address  rather  than  as  an  invitation  to 
patients.  Of  course,  that  must  be  the  true  explana- 
tion. In  that  case  the  presence  of  this  brilliant  neigh- 
bor would  be  a  splendid  thing  for  his  own  studies. 
He  had  often  longed  for  some  kindred  mind,  some 
steel  on  which  he  might  strike  his  flint.  Chance  had 
brought  it  to  him,  and  he  rejoiced  exceedingly. 

And  this  joy  it  was  which  led  him  to  take  a  step 
which  was  quite  at  variance  with  his  usual  habits.  It 
is  the  custom  for  a  newcomer  among  medical  men  to 
call  first  upon  the  older,  and  the  etiquette  upon  the 
subject  is  strict.  Dr.  Ripley  was  pedantically  exact 
on  such  points,  and  yet  he  deliberately  drove  over 
next  day  and  called  upon  Dr.  Verrinder  Smith.  Such 
a  waiving  of  ceremony  was,  he  felt,  a  gracious  act 
upon  his  part,  and  a  fit  prelude  to  the  intimate  rela- 
tions which  he  hoped  to  establish  v/ith  his  neighbor. 


THE  DOCTORS  OF  HOYLAND.  19 

The  house  was  neat  and  well  appointed,  and  Dr. 
Ripley  was  shown  by  a  smart  maid  into  a  dapper  lit- 
tle consulting-room.  As  he  passed  in  he  noticed  two 
or  three  parasols  and  a  lady's  sunbonnet  hanging  in 
the  hall.  It  was  a  pity  that  his  colleague  should  be  a 
married  man.  It  would  put  them  upon  a  different 
footing,  and  interfere  with  those  long  evenings  of 
high  scientific  talk  which  he  had  pictured  to  him- 
self. On  the  other  hand,  there  was  much  in  the  con- 
sulting-room to  please  him.  Elaborate  instruments, 
seen  more  often  in  hospitals  than  in  the  houses  of  pri- 
vate practitioners,  were  scattered  about.  A  sphyg- 
mograph  stood  upon  the  table,  and  a  gasometer-like 
engine,  which  was  new  to  Dr.  Ripley,  in  the  corner. 
A  book-ease  full  of  ponderous  volumes  in  French  and 
German,  paper-covered  for  the  most  part,  and  vary- 
ing in  tint  from  the  shell  to  the  yolk  of  a  duck's 
eg^,  caught  his  wondering  eyes,  and  he  was  deeply 
absorbed  in  their  titles  when  the  door  opened  sud' 
denly  behind  him.  Turning  round  he  found  himself 
facing  a  little  woman,  whose  plain,  palish  face  was 
remarkable  only  for  a  pair  of  shrewd,  humorous  eyes 
of  a  blue  which  had  two  shades  too  much  green  in  it. 
She  held  a  pince-nez  in  her  left  hand  and  the  doctor's 
card  in  her  right. 

**How  do  you  do,  Dr.  Ripley?"  said  she. 

**How  do  you  do,  madam?"  returned  the  visitor. 
"Your  husband  is  perhaps  out?" 

**I  ara  not  married,"  said  she,  simply. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon!  I  meant  the  doctor— Dr. 
Verrinder  Smith." 

*'I  am  Dr.  Verrinder  Smith." 

Dr.  Ripley  was  so  surprised  that  he  dropped  his 
hat  and  forgot  to  pick  it  up  again. 

''"What!"  he  gasped,  ''the  Lee  Hopkins  prize  man! 
You!"  He  had  never  seen  a  woman  doctor  before, 
and  his  whole  conservative  soul  rose  up  in  revolt  at 
the  idea.  He  could  not  recall  any  Biblical  injunction 
that  the  man  should  remain  ever  the  doctor  and  the 


20     •  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

woman  the  nurse,  and  yet  he  felt  as  if  a  blasphemy 
had  been  committed.  His  face  betrayed  his  feelings 
only  too  clearly. 

'*I  am  sorry  to  disappoint  you,"  said  the  lady, 
dryly. 

"You  certainly  have  surprised  me,"  he  answered, 
picking  up  his  hat. 

**You  are  not  among  our  champions,  then?" 

"I  cannot  say  that  the  movement  has  my 
approval. ' ' 

'♦And  why?" 

"I  should  much  prefer  not  to  discuss  it." 

*  *  But  I  am  sure  you  will  answer  a  lady 's  question. ' ' 

'♦Ladies  are  in  danger  of  losing  their  privileges 
when  they  usurp  the  place  of  the  other  sex.  They  can- 
not claim  both." 

"Why  should  a  woman  not  earn  her  bread  by  her 
brains?" 

Dr.  Ripley  felt  irritated  by  the  quiet  manner  in 
which  the  lady  cross-questioned  him. 

**I  should  much  prefer  not  to  be  led  into  a  discus- 
eion,  Miss  Smith." 

"Dr.  Smith,"  she  interrupted. 

"Well,  Dr.  Smith!  But  if  you  insist  upon  an 
answer,  I  must  say  that  I  do  not  think  medicine  a 
suitable  profession  for  women,  and  that  I  have  a  per- 
sonal objection  to  masculine  ladies."  It  was  an 
exceedingly  rude  speech,  and  he  was  ashamed  of  it 
the  instant  after  he  had  made  it.  The  lady,  however, 
Bimply  raised  her  eye-brows  and  smiled. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  you  are  begging  the  question," 
said  she.  "Of  course,  if  it  makes  women  masculine, 
that  would  be  a  considerable  deterioration, ' ' 

It  was  a  neat  little  counter,  and  Dr.  Ripley,  like  a 
picked  fencer,  bowed  his  acknowledgment.  "I  must 
go,"  said  he. 

"I  am  sorry  that  we  can  not  come  to  some  more 
friendly  conclusions,  since  we  are  to  be  neighbors," 
she  remarked. 


THE  DOCTORS  OF  HOYLAND.  21 

He  bowed  again,  and  took  a  step  toward  tlie  door. 

"It  was  a  singular  coincidence,"  she  continued, 
"that  at  the  instant  that  you  called  I  was  reading 
your  paper  on  'Locomotor  Ataxia'  in  the  'Lancet.'  " 

"Indeed,"  said  he  dryly. 

"I  thought  it  was  a  very  able  monograph." 

"Tou  are  very  good." 

"But  the  views  which  you  attribute  to  Professor 
Pitres  of  Bordeaux  have  been  repudiated  by  him." 

"I  have  his  pamphlet  of  1890,"  said  Dr.  Ripley, 
angrily. 

"Here  is  his  pamphlet  of  1891."  She  picked  it 
from  among  a  litter  of  periodicals.  "If  you  have  time 
to  glance  your  eye  down  this  passage—" 

Dr.  Ripley  took  it  from  her  and  shot  rapidly 
through  the  paragraph  which  she  indicated.  There 
was  no  denying  that  it  completely  knocked  the  bot- 
tom out  of  his  own  article.  He  threw  it  down,  and 
with  another  frigid  bow  he  made  for  the  door.  As 
he  took  the  reins  from  the  groom,  he  glanced  round 
and  saw  that  the  lady  was  standing  at  her  window, 
end  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  was  laughing  heartily. 

All  day  the  memory  of  this  interview  haunted  him. 
He  felt  that  he  had  come  very  badly  out  of  it.  She 
had  shown  herself  to  be  his  superior  on  his  own  pet 
subject.  She  had  been  courteous  while  he  had  been 
rude,  self-possessed  when  he  had  been  angry.  And 
then,  above  all,  there  was  her  presence,  her  monstrous 
intrusion,  to  rankle  in  his  mind.  A  woman  doctor  had 
been  an  abstract  thing  before,  repugnant,  but  distant. 
Now  she  was  there  in  actual  practice,  with  a  brass 
plate  up  just  like  his  own,  competing  for  the  same 
patients.  Not  that  he  feared  the  competition,  but  he 
objected  to  this  lowering  of  his  ideal  of  womanhood. 
She  could  not  be  more  than  thirty,  and  had  a  bright, 
mobile  face  too.  He  thought  of  her  humorous  eyes, 
and  of  her  strong,  well-turned  chin.  It  revolted  him 
the  more  to  recall  the  details  of  her  education.  A 
man,  of  course,  could  come  through  such  an  ordeal 


22  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

with  all  his  purity,  but  it  was  nothing  short  of 
shameless  in  a  woman. 

But  it  was  not  long  before  he  learned  that  even  her 
competition  was  a  thing  to  be  feared.  The  novelty  of 
her  presence  had  brought  a  few  curious  invalids  into 
her  consulting-rooms,  and,  once  there,  they  had  been 
so  impressed  by  the  firmness  of  her  manner,  and  by 
the  singular  new-fashioned  instruments  with  which 
she  tapped  and  peered  and  sounded,  that  it  formed 
the  core  of  their  conversation  for  weeks  afterward. 
And  soon  there  were  tangible  proofs  of  her  powers 
upon  the  countryside.  Farmer  Eyton,  whose  callous 
ulcer  had  been  quietly  spreading  over  his  shin  for 
years  back,  under  a  gentle  regime  of  zinc  ointment, 
was  painted  round  with  blistering  fluid,  and  found, 
after  three  blasphemous  nights,  that  his  sore  was 
stimulated  into  healing.  Mrs.  Crowder,  who  had 
always  regarded  the  birthmark  upon  her  second 
daughter,  Eliza,  as  a  sign  of  the  indignation  of  the 
Creator  at  a  third  helping  of  a  raspberry  tart  which 
she  had  partaken  of  during  a  critical  period,  learned 
that,  with  the  help  of  two  galvanic  needles,  the  mis- 
chief was  not  irreparable.  In  a  month  Dr.  Verrinder 
Smith  was  known,  and  in  two  she  was  famous. 

Occasionally  Dr.  Ripley  met  her  as  he  drove  upon 
his  rounds.  She  had  started  a  high  dogcart,  taking 
the  reins  herself,  with  a  little  tiger  behind.  "When 
they  met  he  invariably  raised  his  hat  with  punctilious 
politeness,  but  the  grim  severity  of  his  face  showed 
how  formal  was  the  courtesy.  In  fact,  his  dislike  was 
rapidly  deepening  into  absolute  detestation.  "The 
unsexed  woman"  was  the  description  of  her  which  he 
permitted  himself  to  give  to  those  of  his  patients  who 
still  remained  stanch.  But,  indeed,  they  were  a 
rapidly  decreasing  body,  and  every  day  his  pride  was 
galled  by  the  news  of  some  fresh  defection.  The  lady 
had  somehow  impressed  the  country  folk  with  an 
almost  superstitious  belief  in  her  power,  and  from 
far  and  near  they  flocked  to  her  consulting-room. 


THE  DOCTORS  OF  HOYLAND.  23 

But  what  galled  him  most  of  all  was  when  she  did 
something  which  he  had  pronounced  to  be  imprac- 
ticable.   For  all  his  knowledge,  he  lacked  nerve  as  an 
operator,  and  usually  sent  his  worst  cases  up  to  Lon- 
don.    The  lady,  however,  had  no  weakness  of  the 
sort,  and  took  everything  that  came  in  her  way.    It 
was  agony  to  him  to  hear  that  she  was  about  to 
straighten  little  Alec  Turner's  club  foot,  and  right  at 
the  fringe  of  the  rumor  came  a  note  from  his  mother, 
the  rector's  wife,  asking  him  if  he  would  be  so  good 
as  to  act  as  chloroformist.    It  would  be  inhumanity  to 
refuse,  as  there  was  no  other  who  could  take  the  place, 
but  it  was  gall  and  wormwood  to  his  sensitive  nature. 
Yet,  in  spite  of  his  vexation,  he  could  not  but  admire 
the  dexterity  with  which  the  thing  was  done.     She 
handled  the  little  wax-like  foot  so  gently,  and  held 
the  tiny  tenotomy  knife  as  an  artist  holds  his  pencil. 
One  straight  incision,  one  snick  of  a  tendon,  and  it 
was  all  over  without  a  stain  on  the  white  towel  which 
lay  beneath.    He  had  never  seen  anything  more  mas- 
terly, and  he  had  the  honesty  to  say  so,  though  her 
skill   increased  his   dislike    of  her.     The   operation 
spread  her  fame  still  farther  at  his  expense,  and  self- 
preservation  was   added   to   his   other  grounds   for 
detesting  her. 

And  this  very  detestation  it  was  which  brought 
matters  to  a  curious  climax.  One  winter's  night,  just 
as  he  was  rising  from  his  lonely  dinner,  a  groom  came 
riding  down  from  Squire  Faircastle  's,  the  richest  man 
in  the  district,  to  say  that  his  daughter  had  scalded 
her  hand,  and  that  medical  help  was  needed  on  the 
instant. 

The  coachman  had  ridden  for  the  lady  doctor,  for  it 
mattered  nothing  to  the  squire  who  came,  as  long  as  it 
were  speedily.  Dr.  Ripley  rushed  from  his  surgery 
with  the  determination  that  she  should  not  effect  an 
entrance  into  this  stronghold  of  his  if  hard  driving  on 
his  part  could  prevent  it.  He  did  not  even  wait  to 
light  his  lamps,  but  sprang  into  his  gig  and  flew  off 


24  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

as  fast  as  hoofs  could  rattle.  He  lived  rather  nearer 
to  the  Squire's  than  she  did,  and  was  convinced  that 
he  could  get  there  well  before  her. 

And  so  he  would  but  for  that  whimsical  element  of 
chance,  which  will  forever  muddle  up  the  affairs  of 
this  world  and  dumfound  the  prophets.  Whether  it 
came  from  the  want  of  his  lights,  or  from  his  mind 
ibeing  full  of  the  thoughts  of  his  rival,  he  allowed 
,too  little  by  half  a  foot  in  taking  the  sharp  turn  upon 
the  Basingstoke  road.  The  empty  trap  and  the 
[frightened  horse  clattered  away  into  the  darkness, 
while  the  Squire 's  groom  crawled  out  of  the  ditch  into 
which  he  had  been  shot.  He  struck  a  match,  looked 
down  at  his  groaning  companion,  and  then,  after  the 
fashion  of  rough,  strong  men  when  they  see  what  they 
have  not  seen  before,  he  was  very  sick. 

The  Doctor  raised  himself  a  little  on  his  elbow  in 
the  glint  of  the  match.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of  some- 
thing white  and  sharp  bristling  through  his  trouser- 
leg,  half  way  down  the  shin. 

** Compound!"  he  groaned.  "A  three  months* 
Job,"  and  fainted. 

When  he  came  to  himself  the  groom  was  gone,  for 
lie  had  scudded  off  to  the  Squire's  house  for  help,  but 
a  small  page  was  holding  a  gig-lamp  in  front  of  his 
injured  leg,  and  a  woman,  with  an  open  case  of  pol- 
ished instruments  gleaming  in  the  yellow  light,  was 
deftly  slitting  up  his  trouser  with  a  crooked  pair  of 
scissors. 

"It's  all  right,  Doctor,"  said  she,  soothingly.  "I 
am  so  sorry  about  it.  You  can  have  Dr.  Horton 
to-morrow,  but  I  am  sure  you  will  allow  me  to  help 
you  to-night.  I  could  hardly  believe  my  eyes  when  I 
saw  you  by  the  roadside. '  * 

**The  groom  has  gone  for  help,"  groaned  the  suf- 
ferer. 

''When  it  comes  we  can  move  you  into  the  gig,  A 
little  more  light,  John !  So !  Ah,  dear,  dear,  we  shall 
have  laceration  unless  we  reduce  this  before  we  move 


THE  DOCTORS  OF  HOYLAND.  25 

you.  Allow  me  to  give  you  a  whiff  of  chloroform,  and 
I  have  no  doubt  that  I  can  secure  it  sufficiently  to—" 

Dr.  Ripley  never  heard  the  end  of  that  sentence. 
He  tried  to  raise  a  hand  and  to  murmur  something  in 
protest,  but  a  sweet  smell  was  in  his  nostrils,  and  a 
sense  of  rich  peace  and  lethargy  stole  over  his  jangled 
nerves.  Down  he  sank,  through  clear,  cool  water, 
ever  down  and  down  into  the  green  shadows  beneath, 
gently,  without  effort,  while  the  pleasant  chiming  of 
a  great  belfry  rose  and  fell  in  his  ears.  Then  he  rose 
again,  up  and  up,  and  ever  up,  with  a  terrible  tight- 
ness about  his  temples,  until  at  last  he  shot  out  of 
those  green  shadows  and  was  out  in  the  light  once 
more.  Two  bright  shining  golden  spots  gleamed 
before  his  dazed  eyes.  He  blinked  and  blinked  before 
lie  could  give  a  name  to  them.  They  were  only  the 
two  brass  balls  at  the  end  posts  of  his  bed,  and  he  was 
lying  in  his  own  little  room,  with  a  head  like  a  can- 
non-ball, and  a  leg  like  an  iron  bar.  Turning  his 
eyes,  he  saw  the  calm  face  of  Dr.  Verrinder  Smith 
looking  down  at  him. 

*' Ah,  at  last  !'*  said  she.  **I  kept  you  under  all  the 
way  home,  for  I  knew  how  painful  the  jolting  would 
be.  It  is  in  good  position  now,  with  a  strong  side 
splint.  I  have  ordered  a  morphia  draught  for  you. 
Shall  I  tell  your  groom  to  ride  for  Dr.  Horton  in  the 
morning  ? ' ' 

**I  should  prefer  that  you  should  continue  the 
case,"  said  Dr.  Ripley  feebly,  and  then,  with  a  half- 
hysterical  laugh,  "You  have  all  the  rest  of  the  parish 
as  patients,  you  know,  so  you  may  as  well  make  the 
thing  complete  by  having  me  also."  It  was  not  a 
very  gracious  speech,  but  it  was  a  look  of  pity  and  not 
of  anger  which  shone  in  her  eyes  as  she  turned  away 
from  his  bedside. 

Dr.  Ripley  had  a  brother  "William,  who  was  assistant 
surgeon  at  a  London  hospital,  and  who  was  down  in 
Hampshire  within  a  few  hours  of  his  hearing  of  the 
accident.  He  raised  his  brows  when  he  heard  the 
details. 


26  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

''What!  You  are  pestered  with  one  of  those!"  he 
cried. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  without 
her." 

**I've  no  doubt  she's  an  excellent  nurse." 

*  *  She  knows  her  work  as  well  as  you  or  I. " 
''Speak  for  yourself,  James,"  said  the  London  man 

with  a  sniff.  *'But  apart  from  that,  you  know  that 
the  principle  of  the  thing  is  all  wrong. ' ' 

"You  think  there  is  nothing  to  be  said  on  the  other 
side?" 

**Good  heavens!  do  youV" 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  It  struck  me  during  the  night 
that  we  may  have  been  a  little  narrow  in  our  views. ' ' 

"Nonsense,  James.  It's  all  very  fine  for  women  to 
win  prizes  in  the  lecture-room,  but  you  know  as  well 
as  I  do  that  they  are  no  use  in  an  emergency.  Now  I 
warrant  that  this  woman  was  all  nerves  when  she  was 
setting  your  leg.  That  reminds  me  that  I  had  better 
just  take  a  look  at  it  and  see  that  it  is  all  right. '  * 

"I  would  rather  that  you  did  not  undo  it,"  said  the 
patient;  "I  have  her  assurance  that  it  is  all  right." 

Brother  William  was  deeply  shocked. 

*  *  Of  course,  if  a  woman 's  assurance  is  of  more  value 
than  the  opinion  of  the  assistant  surgeon  of  a  London 
hospital,  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said,"  he  re- 
marked. 

"I  should  prefer  that  you  did  not  touch  it,"  said 
the  patient  firmly,  and  Dr.  William  went  back  to  Lon- 
don that  evening  in  a  huff.  The  lady,  who  had  heard 
of  his  coming,  was  much  surprised  on  learning  of  his 
departure. 

"We  had  a  difference  upon  a  point  of  professional 
etiquette,"  said  Dr.  James,  and  it  was  all  the  explana- 
tion he  would  vouchsafe. 

For  two  long  months  Dr.  Ripley  was  brought  in  con- 
tact with  his  rival  every  day,  and  he  learned  many 
things  which  he  had  not  known  before.  She  was  a 
charming  companion,  as  well  as  a  most  assiduous  doc- 


THE  DOCTORS  OF  HOYLAND.  27 

tor.  Her  short  presence  during  the  long  weary  day 
was  like  a  flower  in  a  sand  waste.  What  interested 
him  was  precisely  what  interested  her,  and  she  could 
meet  him  at  every  point  upon  equal  terms.  And  yet 
under  all  her  learning  and  her  firmness  ran  a  sweet, 
womanly  nature,  peeping  out  in  her  talk,  shining  in 
her  greenish  eyes,  showing  itself  in  a  thousand  subtle 
ways  which  the  dullest  of  men  could  read.  And  he, 
though  a  bit  of  a  prig  and  a  pedant,  was  by  no  means 
dull,  and  had  honesty  enough  to  confess  when  he  was 
in  the  wrong. 

**I  don't  know  how  to  apologize  to  you,"  he  said  in 
his  shamefaced  fashion  one  day,  when  he  had  pro- 
gressed so  far  as  to  be  able  to  sit  in  an  armchair  with 
his  leg  upon  another  one;  "I  feel  that  I  have  been 
quite  in  the  wrong." 

** Why,  then?" 

*  *  Over  this  woman  question.  I  used  to  think  that  a 
woman  must  inevitably  lose  something  of  her  charm  if 
she  took  up  such  studies. ' ' 

"Oh,  you  don't  think  they  are  necessarily  unsexed, 
then?"  she  cried,  with  a  mischievous  smile. 

** Please  don't  recall  my  idiotic  expression." 

"I  feel  so  pleased  that  I  should  have  helped  in 
changing  your  views.  I  think  that  it  is  the  most  sin- 
cere compliment  that  I  have  ever  had  paid  me." 

**At  any  rate,  it  is  the  truth,"  said  he,  and  was 
happy  all  night  at  the  remembrance  of  the  flush  of 
pleasure  which  made  her  pale  face  look  quite  comely 
for  the  instant. 

For,  indeed,  he  was  already  far  past  the  stage  when 
he  would  acknowledge  her  as  the  equal  of  any  other 
woman.  Already  he  could  not  disguise  from  himself 
that  she  had  become  the  one  woman.  Her  dainty  skill, 
her  gentle  touch,  her  sweet  presence,  the  community  of 
their  tastes,  had  all  united  to  hopelessly  upset  his  pre- 
vious opinions.  It  was  a  dark  day  for  him  now  when 
his  convalescence  allowed  him  to  miss  a  visit,  and 
darker  still  that  other  one  which  he  saw  approaching 


28  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

when  all  occasion  for  her  visits  would  be  at  an  end. 
It  came  around  at  last,  however,  and  he  felt  that  his 
whole  life's  fortune  would  hang  upon  the  issue  of  that 
final  interview.  He  was  a  direct  man  by  nature,  so  he 
laid  his  hand  upon  hers  as  it  felt  for  his  pulse,  and  he 
asked  her  if  she  would  be  his  wife. 

^'What,  and  unite  the  practices?"  said  she. 

He  started  in  pain  and  anger.  "Surely  you  do  not 
attribute  any  such  base  motive  to  me,"  he  cried.  "I 
love  you  as  unselfishly  as  ever  a  woman  was  loved. ' ' 

"No,  I  was  wrong.  It  was  a  foolish  speech,"  said 
she,  moving  her  chair  a  little  back,  and  tapping  her 
stethoscope  upon  her  knee.  "Forget  that  I  ever  said 
it.  I  am  so  sorry  to  cause  you  any  disappointment, 
and  I  appreciate  most  highly  the  honor  which  you  do 
me,  but  what  you  ask  is  quite  impossible." 

With  another  woman  he  might  have  urged  the  point, 
but  his  instincts  told  him  that  it  was  quite  useless  with 
this  one.  Her  tone  of  voice  was  conclusive.  He  said 
nothing,  but  leaned  back  in  his  chair  a  stricken  man. 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said  again.  "If  I  had  known 
what  was  passing  in  j^our  mind  I  should  have  told  you 
earlier  that  I  intend  to  devote  my  life  entirely  to 
science.  There  are  many  women  with  a  capacity  for 
marriage,  but  few  with  a  taste  for  biology.  I  will  re- 
main true  to  my  own  line  then.  I  came  down  here 
while  waiting  for  an  opening  in  the  Paris  Physiologi- 
cal Laboratory.  I  have  just  heard  that  there  is  a 
vacancy  for  me  there,  and  so  you  will  be  troubled  no 
more  by  my  intrusion  upon  your  practice.  I  have 
done  you  an  injustice,  as  you  did  me  one.  I  thought 
you  narrow  and  pedantic,  with  no  good  quality.  I 
have  learned  during  your  illness  to  appreciate  you 
better,  and  the  recollection  of  our  friendship  will  al- 
ways be  a  very  pleasant  one  to  me." 

And  so  it  came  about  that  in  a  very  few  weeks  there 
was  only  one  doctor  in  Hoyland.  But  folks  noticed 
that  the  one  had  aged  many  years  in  a  few  months, 
that  a  weary  sadness  lurked  always  in  the  depths  of 
his  blue  eyes,  and  that  he  was  less  concerned  than  ever 
with  the  eligible  young  ladies  whom  chance,  or  their 
careful  country  mammas,  placed  in  his  way. 

Sir  a.  Conan  Doyle. 


III. 

DOCTOR  SANTOS :  A  CHARACTER 
SKETCH. 

VERY  one  in  Madrid  knew  Doctor  Santos.  He 
was  a  little  bit  of  a  man,  with  his  beard  and 
hair  clamoring  for  the  use  of  the  scissors,  and 
his  clothes  for  benzine  and  a  more  fashionable  cut. 
Nevertheless,  he  had  a  universal  reputation  for  great 
wisdom,  and  his  popularity  in  the  district  of  Cham- 
beri,  the  principal  scene  of  his  work,  was  beyond 
everything. 

Possibly  the  peculiarities  of  the  doctor  did  more 
than  his  true  merit  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  peo- 
ple. Perhaps  some  presentiment  made  every  one  con- 
eider  him  physically  of  not  much  account,  but  mentally 
a  diamond  of  the  purest  water.  It  was  well  known 
that  in  the  exercise  of  his  profession  he  was  a  true 
ministering  angel,  and  without  any  pretence  of  being 
a  specialist  or  a  philanthropist.  People  said  that  he 
was  half  crazy  over  the  subject  of  disease,  and  fol- 
lowed the  development  of  a  fever  with  the  same  in- 
terest that  others  listened  to  or  read  a  dramatic  work, 
but  with  this  exception,  that  it  was  not  always  neces- 
sary to  be  a  mere  spectator,  that  by  discreetly  inter- 
vening sometimes,  he  prepared  cheerful  and  unex- 
pected comedy,  where  otherwise  there  would  have  been 
the  deepest  tragedy. 

This  might  have  been  merely  scientific  curiosity— we 
will  not  discuss  that  point— but  thanks  to  this  Keen 
interest,  if  a  patient  were  very  ill,  and  that  happened 
frequently,  he  would  remain  to  watch  by  the  bedside, 
and  again,— and  this  happened  yet  more  frequently, 

(29) 


30  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

for  Doctor  Santos  devoted  himself  almost  ex- 
clusively to  poor  people— there  would  not  be  money 
enough  to  buy  supper  for  the  family  or  broth  or  medi- 
cine for  the  sick  one ;  then  our  doctor  would  pull  out 
his  purse  and  send  for  whatever  was  necessary.  His 
patients  never  lacked  for  what  was  needed  to  restore 
them  to  health. 

The  doctor's  greatest  pleasure,  as  he  always  de- 
clared, was  to  cure  sick  children.  It  seemed  impossi- 
ble that  a  man  who  had  no  family  and  who,  according 
to  all  accounts,  had  never  married,  and  who  had  been 
adopted  himself  by  a  barber  who  took  him  from  an 
orphan  asylum,  should  be  able  to  feel  such  absolute 
tenderness  of  heart  towards  little  ones. 

A  woman,  whose  son  the  doctor  had  restored  to 
health,  aptly  expressed  the  sentiments  of  every  one: 
"It  seems  as  if  Doctor  Santos  had  been  a  mother 
himself." 

"We  will  take  it  for  granted  that  his  life  and  good 
deeds  are  well  known,  for  many  a  scientific  work  can 
testify  to  the  merits  of  Doctor  Santos ;  so  we  will  not 
stop  to  give  a  detailed  resume  or  minute  account  of 
the  arduous  labor  of  many  years  spent  in  true  per- 
formance of  his  profession. 

I  am  now  going  to  speak  of  an  event  in  his  life 
which,  if  it  were  not  absolutely  true,  would  seem  to 
many  people  to  be  altogether  improbable. 

Doctor  Santos  always  said  that  the  elixir  of  long 
life  was  a  very  easy  and  simple  thing  to  obtain,  that 
it  was  not  necessary  to  knock  one's  head  against  the 
wall  in  order  that  the  electric  spark  of  an  idea  should 
spring  out  of  the  brain,  and  that  even  the  most  stupid 
could  give  a  solution  of  the  problem  to  those  who  dis- 
cussed it  learnedly,  but  that  not  even  this  elixir  nor 
any  other  could  be  applied  in  every  case,  that  it  was 
just  as  difficult  to  unite  a  head  to  the  body  from  which 
it  had  been  severed  as  to  repair  the  ravages  of  some  ill- 
nesses. In  eighty  eases  out  of  a  hundred,  however,  he 
was  sure  that  the  elixir  would  give  good  results. 


DOCTOR  SANTOS:    A  CHARACTER  SKETCH.     3l 

The  strangest  thing  was  that  these  were  not  merely 
affirmations,  but  positive  proofs,  for  in  his  practice  he 
had  tried  the  remedy  and,  not  only  eighty  to  a  hun- 
dred, but  in  even  greater  proportion,  had  produced 
good  results.  He  never  could  be  made  to  specify  the 
remedy,  and  he  put  an  end  to  all  questions  on  the  sub- 
ject, by  saying : 

"Nothing,  nothing,  it  is  like,  it  is  like  Columbus's 
e^g,  why  prove  it?" 

It  was  long  after  twelve  o'clock  one  night,  when 
Doctor  Santos  entered  a  miserable  garret  in  the  Salle 
de  Fuencarral.  The  door  was  partly  open.  A  mid- 
dle-aged man  was  stretched  out  on  a  rude  cot.  The 
rest  of  the  furniture  consisted  of  some  broken,  rush- 
bottomed  chairs,  and  a  pine  table  by  the  bedside. 
The  sick  man  had  no  relatives  in  Madrid ;  he  had  ar- 
rived from  Cataluila  a  little  more  than  a  month  before 
and  had  fallen  ill  with  pneumonia.  He  refused,  abso- 
lutely, to  go  to  the  hospital,  so  a  charitable  neighbor, 
who  had  attended  to  his  simple  wants  for  some  time, 
called  in  Doctor  Santos.  The  disease  had  already 
made  inroads  upon  the  man's  constitution.  Although 
the  pneumonia  was  helped,  the  doctor  could  not  cure 
the  quick  consumption  which  followed  and  which 
would  soon  end  the  man's  life. 

When  the  sick  man  saw  the  doctor  enter,  an  expres- 
sion of  joy  passed  over  his  features,  as  if  now  black 
death  had  no  terror  for  him ;  for,  in  the  last  sad  mo- 
ments, a  warm  hand  would  clasp  his  and  a  loving  heart 
would  be  moved  to  sympathy.  The  doctor  took  the 
sick  man's  hand. 

*  *  How  are  you,  Jaime  ? "  he  asked. 

"  I  am  dying,  I  feel  sure  of  it,  but  I  wish  to  ask  one 
more  favor  of  you  who  have  already  done  so  many  for 
me.  Tell  me  how  much  longer  I  have  to  live.  I  know 
there  is  nothing  that  will  help  me,  and  I  am  almost 
glad  that  it  is  so,  for  I  have  suffered  so  much  in  my 
life.  At  least,  I  shall  cease  to  suffer.  It  is  true,  is  it 
not,  that  over  there  there  is  no  more  pain,  all  is  quiet, 
dark,  cold?" 


32  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

Accustomed  as  Doctor  Santos  was  to  such  scenes,  he 
could  scarcely  keep  back  the  tears— much  to  his  own 
disgust,  when  he  looked  at  the  poor  fellow— and  he 
growled  to  himself:  "A  weeping  doctor  is  a  fool." 
But  he  answered  the  dying  man  very  gently : 

' '  What  can  I  do  for  you,  Jaime  ?  To  whom  shall  I 
write  ?  Let  me  know  just  what  you  wish  to  be  done 
and  I  promise  you  to  do  it  as  far  as  I  am  able,  and 
before  it  slips  my  memory.  I  don't  want  to  frighten 
you,  but  every  one  takes  things  differently.  Judging 
from  the  state  you  are  in,  I  am  not  the  one  just  now  to 
do  you  the  most  good,  and  we  must  soon  send  for  one 
who  can  give  you  the  only  true  consolation.  After  all, 
although  this  life  means  a  great  deal  to  us,  we  ought 
to  be  glad  rather  than  sorry  at  the  thought  of  leaving 
it,  because  we  are  all  sure  that  God  is  good  and  will 
pardon  us,  and  that  he  loves  us.  For  this  reason  we 
call  him  Father,  for  if  he  is  not  better  than  the  best 
on  earth,  what  other  conception  can  we  have  of  him? 

"Now,  I  will  go  myself  to  call  a  priest  whom  I  know, 
and  in  the  meantime,  I  will  see  if  a  neighbor  will  stay 
with  you. ' ' 

"Oh,  don't  go,  I  beg  of  you.    I  must  talk  to  you." 

The  doctor  dared  not  say  no,  but  he  knew  that  the 
hour  of  death  was  swiftly  approaching.  A  moment 
later  he  left  the  room,  saying:— 

"I'll  return  directly." 

He  sent  a  neighbor  for  the  priest,  then  returned  as 
he  had  promised,  and  sat  down  by  the  head  of  the  bed. 

Jaime  asked  the  doctor  to  do  him  the  favor  to  put 
his  hand  under  the  mattress  and  take  out  a  packet 
which  he  would  find  there.  After  the  doctor  had 
pulled  out  the  packet,  Jaime  began  to  speak:— 

"Doctor,  I  ask  you  not  to  open  this  packet  until 
after  I  am  dead,  and  after  that,  with  the  help  of  your 
own  conscience,  you  will  decide  what  you  think  had 
best  be  done.  I  want  you,  if  any  personal  advantage 
can  come  to  you  from  it,  to  use  it  all  for  yourself.  I 
have  no  affection  for  any  one  else,  nor  am  I  in  debt  to 


DOCTOR  SANTOS:    A  CHARACTER  SKETCH.    33 

any  one.  If  this  were  not  my  last  hour  on  earth  I 
should  say  that  my  soul  held  nothing  but  hatred  for 
the  evil  received  from  those  I  most  cherished. 

The  sick  man  seemed  fatigued  and  the  doctor  told 
him  to  rest  a  few  moments,  but  now  the  man  began  to 
make  those  motions  of  the  hands,  so  characteristic  of 
those  about  to  die,  and  to  plait  and  unplait  the  bed 
clothing.  He  did  not  seem  to  know  exactly  what  he 
was  saying  and  his  eyes  wandered  restlessly  about  the 
room  :— 

**She  deceived  me.  How  much  I  loved  her!  Her 
beautiful  black  eyes !  How  pretty  she  was !  And  he 
my  best  friend !  It  was  infamous,  shameful !  I  saw 
them!  the  truth  is  proof  enough!  Ah,  how  much 
blood  flowed  from  the  wound !— he  did  not  mind  dying 
because  he  knew  she  loved  him.  And  I  envied  him 
after  he  was  dead!  Ah,  how  hard  the  punishment! 
How  dark  the  cell,  how  heavy  the  shackles!  It  is 
shameful !  I  am  an  assassin !  Every  one  has  left  me ! 
How  blue  the  sky  is !  How  fresh  and  green  the  fields ! 
I  can't  get  out  with  these  horrible  irons  on  my 
wrists!" 

The  priest  came  in  time  to  adminster  the  extreme 
unction.  Jaime  died  shortly  after  and  the  doctor  re- 
turned home  ^vith  the  packet  under  his  arm.  Once 
in  his  study,  before  going  to  bed,  he  decided  to  open 
the  bundle  which  Jaime  had  give  him  with  so  much 
mystery.  It  was  an  easy  task.  He  untied  the  paper 
and  out  fell  what  seemed  to  be  a  magazine.  There 
were  hundreds  of  leaves,  but  each  leaf  was  a  banknote 
of  four  thousand  reals. 

Daylight  glimmered  through  the  curtains.  Doctor 
Santos  had  not  closed  his  eyes.  He  was  the  owner,  the 
rightful  owner  of  more  than  four  thousand  pesetas 
(one  hundred  thousand  dollars)  and  the  donation  was 
absolutely  legitimate.  Jaime's  mind,  as  no  one  knew 
better  than  he,  was  perfectly  clear  at  the  time  he  made 
the  gift.  What  should  he  do  with  all  that  money! 
He  would  be  happy,  all  his  friends  would  be  happy,  in 


34  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

fact,  everyone  would  be  happy !  What  a  library,  what 
a  laboratory,  he  would  have ! 

Hours  passed,  but  the  doctor  tossed  and  turned 
restlessly  on  his  bed,  unable  to  sleep  for  a  moment. 
The  clock  struck  seven.  He  could  not  stay  in  bed  any 
longer;  he  arose,  made  his  accustomed  hasty  toilet, 
drank  his  coffee  and  started  off  on  his  usual  round  of 
visits.  He  began  with  the  very  sick  patients,  but  at 
ten  o'clock  he  said  to  himself,  he  would  get  a  friend 
to  accompany  him  to  the  bank  that  he  might  deposit 
the  money.  He  had  never  kept  any  money  in  a  bank. 
The  little  box  in  his  office  had  always  held  all  he  could 
spare,  and  he  did  not  know  exactly  what  legal  forms 
were  necessary  in  order  to  have  it  placed  so  that  he 
could  draw  out  certain  sums  when  he  wished. 

His  first  patient  lived  several  miles  away,  so  he  car- 
ried the  precious  package  with  him  in  order  not  to 
lose  time  in  going  and  coming.  He  stopped  at  the 
patient's  house.  The  sick  man  was  a  cabinet  maker 
who  had  been  trying  to  work  with  an  injured  hand, 
consequently,  blood  poisoning  had  set  in  and  the  symp- 
toms were  such  that  amputation  seemed  necessary. 
The  poor  man,  strong  as  an  oak,  cried  like  a  child. 

*  *  The  maintenance  of  my  wife  and  family  lies  in  the 
skill  of  my  five  fingers,"  he  said,  "and  now  you  are 
going  to  cut  them  off. ' ' 

But  Doctor  Santos,  more  of  an  optimist  than  ever 
that  day,  brought  the  bright  light  of  hope  into  the  sad 
hearts  of  the  afflicted  family.  They  might  rely  upon 
him  for  support  and  help  as  long  as  they  needed  it. 

He  then  went  to  see  a  talented  journalist  who  had 
not  prospered  since  he  began  to  have  ideas  and  tastes 
of  his  own  instead  of  praising  those  of  other  people. 
The  journalist  had  lost  his  place  because  he  had  pub- 
lished, without  first  consulting  the  director,  an  article 
in  which  he  said  that  what  Marruecos  most  needed  was 
some  powerful  nation  to  civilize  it,  that  our  position 
in  the  matter  was  like  that  of  the  gardener's  dog,  keep- 
ing others  from  doing  what  we  could  not  do  ourselves ; 


DOCTOR  SANTOS:    A  CHARACTER  SKETCH.    35 

that  it  would  be  better  to  be  annexed  to  a  rich  country 
than  a  poor  one,  to  have  a  cultivated  country  instead 
of  a  semi-savage  one ;  and  a  hundred  other  barbarities 
besides. 

As  one  might  well  imagine,  the  journalist  had  trou- 
ble with  his  head,  he  was  worn  out  by  fatigue  and  had 
the  beginning  of  softening  of  the  brain.  Doctor  San- 
tos had  ordered  rest,  a  quiet,  regular  life,  early  hours, 
and  horse-back  riding. 

The  journalist  sent  out  to  a  store  for  a  pasteboard 
horse,  and  when  the  doctor  called  to  see  him,  the  sick 
man  said  :— 

"This  is  the  only  horse  I  can  afford." 

Of  course,  he  plainly  showed  his  insanity  by  this 
act,  but  Doctor  Santos  did  not  look  upon  it  in  that 
light.  He  begged  the  man's  pardon  for  having  ad- 
vised him  to  buy  what  he  could  not  afford. 

A  little  later,  he  visited  a  widow  with  three  children. 
She  was  young  and  pretty;  her  husband  had  been  a 
sculptor  of  some  talent.  He  was  not  rich,  but  he  had 
earned  enough  to  support  his  family  decently.  He 
died  and  for  the  first  year  the  wife  managed  to  live 
fairly  well,  by  dint  of  great  economy.  The  second 
year,  the  widow  sold  her  husband 's  art  treasures ;  the 
third  year,  she  lived  on  the  gifts  of  relatives  and 
friends,  which  gave  out  before  the  fourth  year,  and 
the  family  went  from  the  second  floor  to  the  garret, 
from  wholesome  food  to  scanty  scraps,  from  warm 
clothing  to  rags.     Last  of  all  came  sickness. 

Doctor  Santos  felt  inspired:  "If  this  little  woman 
goes  to  the  bad,  whose  fault  will  it  be?  Her  sewing 
brings  in  so  little !"  Pulling  out  a  banknote,  he  handed 
it  to  the  widow,  telling  her  to  live  where  she  could 
have  fresh  air  and  sunlight,  to  buy  nourishing  food 
and  look  after  the  little  ones. 

The  doctor  left  that  poverty-stricken  place,  his  plain 
face  so  radiant  with  happiness  that  it  seemed  almost 
beautiful.  He  thought  to  himself,  as  he  went  along, 
that  if  Jaime  had  used  some  of  this  money  for  himself 


36  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

and  had  lived  properly,  lie  would  not  have  died  of  con- 
sumption. "That  devilish  avarice!"  he  muttered. 
"A  millionaire  living  and  dying  like  a  beggar  in  order 
not  to  spend  his  money.  What  is  the  good  of  money 
if  it  is  not  to  spend?" 

Suddenly  two  ideas  flashed  into  his  head,  "Sup- 
pose this  is  stolen  money!  What  if  the  bills  are 
false?" 

He  stopped.     The  package  fell  from  his  hand. 

"Sir,  you  have  dropped  something,"  said  a  poor 
woman  who  was  passing.  The  doctor  picked  up  the 
bundle  and,  turning  around,  went  home. 

"Stolen  or  false,"  he  muttered  grimly,  "There  is 
no  other  solution." 

The  words  and  the  ideas  sounded  in  his  ears,  they 
hurt  him,  as  if  some  one  had  struck  him  on  the  head 
with  a  hammer. 

He  reached  his  home,  told  his  old  servant  that  he 
would  see  no  one,  then  changed  his  mind,  sent  the 
woman  off  on  an  errand,  and  shut  himself  up  in  his 
oflfice. 

The  doctor  had  in  his  house  two  banknotes  of  a 
thousand  pesetas  (two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars)  each. 

"We  will  begin  with  the  hypothesis  that  I  can  prove 
them  false, ' '  he  said.  He  took  out  his  own  banknotes 
and  laid  them  on  the  table;  took  another  out  of  the 
package  and  placed  it  between  the  first  two. 

"They  must  have  been  stolen,"  he  said,  "for  all 
three  are  alike,  the  same  block,  the  same  print," 

He  turned  them  over,  they  were  exactly  alike.  Well, 
there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  advertise  and 
await  the  rightful  owner,  and  he  would  have  to  -word 
the  advertisement  so  that  every  Spaniard  in  the  coun- 
try should  not  appear  to  claim  the  money. 

He  took  a  magnifying  glass  and  began  to  make 
methodical  observations.  First,  the  paper,  its  quality, 
its  transparency;  then  the  engravings;  the  letters,  let- 
ter by  letter,  the  signatures.  But  even  with  the  help 
of  the  glass,  which  magnified  the  size  six  or  eight 
times,  he  could  detect  no  difference  between  the  bills. 


DOCTOR  SANTOS:    A  CHARACTER  SKETCH.    37 

' '  From  whom  could  Jaime  have  stolen  them  ?  Had 
blood  been  shed  on  account  of  those  bits  of  paper? 
Had  Jaime  robbed  the  government  or  a  bank  ? ' ' 

The  doctor  thought  and  thought.  He  studied,  with 
the  aid  of  a  glass,  every  detail,  even  the  smallest. 

"Is  it  possible,"  he  exclaimed,  **that  each  one  can 
be  so  perfect?  They  have  been  stolen,  undoubtedly 
stolen,"  he  said,  at  the  end  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of 
close  observation.  Ten  times,  already,  he  had  com- 
pared the  numeration,  but  he  turned  again  to  look 
at  it. 

"They  all  look  alike,"  he  said  again,  but  when  he 
took  away  the  crystal  he  doubted  the  certainty  of  his 
own  vision.  He  brought  out  a  delicate  compass  and 
measured  the  numbers  of  his  old  bills.  He  placed  the 
compass  on  the  new,  there  was  absolutely  no  differ- 
ence. 

He  was  not  satisfied  with  the  length  alone,  but  he 
even  measured  the  width  of  the  lines. 

**They  have  been  stolen,"  he  repeated  mechanically. 
Then,  as  if  answering  himself,  he  spoke  slowly:— 

"Where  could  he  have  stolen  them!  No,  they  are 
counterfeit,  false,  false.  Ah,  thou  Cantalan  rogue, 
who  art  in  the  infernal  regions,  I  hope  that  thou  art 
making  false  notes  with  thy  skin  of  Barrabas !" 

"I  have  learned  the  secret,"  thought  the  doctor. 
** There  is  no  doubt  of  it." 

He  still  looked  exclusively  at  the  numbers,  the  false 
ones  looked  larger,  they  really  were  not,  but  as 
the  lines  were  more  delicate,  it  made  the  ciphers  look 
larger. 

* '  Those  poor  people  are  now  in  prison, '  *  said  Doctor 
Santos  sorrowfully.  "They  have  denounced  me  and 
the  police  will  shortly  come  to  arrest  me,  and  no  one 
will  believe  they  were  ever  given  to  me ! " 

He  raised  the  stove  cover.    "No,  that  won't  do.    The 
embers  and  ashes  will  remain.    They  can  smell  the 
cmoke  and  burnt  paper." 
The  doctor  had  a  dove-cot :  a  dove  just  then  lighted 


38  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

on  tlie  window  sill.  A  bright  idea  came  to  him.  He 
took  two  tin  boxes— such  as  are  used  for  cut  tobacco — 
and  stuffed  them  botji  full  with  bank  notes,  climbed 
up  to  the  dove-cot  and  looked  through  the  garret  win- 
dow. No  one  could  see  him.  He  raised  some  tiles  and 
hid  the  boxes,  then  covered  them  up,  leaving  all  as  it 
was  before.  Breathing  heavily,  his  heart  thumping  fur- 
iously, he  descended  the  staircase  which  led  to  the  sec- 
ond floor  and  dropping  into  a  chair,  opened  a  huge 
volume  which  he  held  before  his  face,  while  he  tried 
to  recover  his  usual  composure. 

If  he  had  been  surprised  and  arrested,  the  inspector 
would  have  noticed  that  the  book  was  upside  down, 
the  two  old  bills,  with  the  magnifying  glass  and  com- 
pass, were  still  on  the  table,  and  that  the  lappels  and 
sleeves  of  his  coat  were  covered  with  earth  and  white- 
wash. 

After  several  hours  had  passed,  the  old  servant  had 
returned,  and  as  no  one  else  had  appeared,  the  doctor 
began  to  think  that  perhaps  the  bills  had  not  yet  been 
changed  and,  by  virtue  of  such  a  supposition,  he  hur- 
ried to  the  widow's  house  with  the  pious  intention  of 
substituting  one  of  his  old  bank  notes  in  place  of  the 
supposed  false  one.  The  bill  had  been  changed;  the 
widow  and  her  children  were  having  a  little  party  in 
honor  of  their  great  good  luck.  They  were  not  alone, 
as  they  generally  were^  but  had  asked  several  of  their 
friends  to  share  their  joy.  They  were  so  profuse  in 
their  expressions  of  gratitude  that  the  good  old  doctor 
did  not  know  what  to  say  nor  how  to  explain  his  sud- 
den return. 

"Now  be  sure  you  take  a  room  where  you  can  have 
sunlight  and  give  the  children  a  dose  of  castor  oil, ' '  he 
said  as  he  hurried  away. 

Doctor  Santos  did  not  recover  his  usual  composure 
for  a  long  time.  He  seemed  taciturn  although  he  con- 
tinued in  his  accustomed  mode  of  living.  After  a 
while,  however,  he  became  more  like  himself. 

The  cabinet  maker,  for  whom  the  doctor  had  ob- 


DOCTOR  SANTOS:    A  CHARACTER  SKETCH.    39 

tained  a  lucrative  position,  wished  to  make  a  public 
manifestation  of  his  gratitude,  but  the  doctor  forbade 
him  to  even  mention  that  he  had  received  help.  Never- 
theless, it  was  murmured  continually,  that  Doctor 
Santos,  on  account  of  his  relations  with  persons  of  high 
rank,  had  given  many  a  one  a  modest  pension,  while 
he  had  restored  others  to  health  by  giving  to  them  the 
money  to  procure  a  change  of  climate  and  a  much 
needed  rest. 

Notwithstanding  his  friends  of  high  rank,  the  doctor 
still  lived  in  his  modest  apartment  and  had  moreover, 
dismissed  his  only  servant.  He  now  took  his  meals  at 
a  neighboring  tavern.  He  still  kept  the  dove-cot,  and 
he  had  bought  an  expensive  therapeutical  apparatus 
and  costly  instruments.  He  had  a  laboratory  and  a 
fine  medical  library. 

He  earned  enough  and  he  had  innumerable  friends 
who  gave  him  money  to  help  cases  of  true  necessity, 
owing  to  his  fame  of  discerning  where  help  was  really 
needed.  Happily  society  is  not  so  completely  decayed 
that  it  does  not  produce,  with  frequent  spontaneity, 
the  flower  of  Christian  charity. 

When  Doctor  Santos  changed  his  habits  of  livi^ig, 
hig  character  also  changed.  Formerly,  he  had  been 
cheerful  and  lively,  fond  of  an  occasional  visit  to  the 
theatre,  and  especially  fond  of  a  good  table.  But 
when  he  might  have  had  all  this  he  became  gloomy 
and  moody,  and  reduced  his  personal  expenses,  in 
spite  of  his  large  earnings,  to  an  extent  almost  miserly. 

The  years  rolled  by,  the  doctor's  hair  was  snowy 
white,  and  he  scarcely  spoke.  As  he  was  no  longer 
young  and  paid  so  little  attention  to  his  own  comfort, 
his  health  began  to  fail.  The  cold  was  intense  that 
winter  and  Doctor  Santos,  in  spite  of  himself,  had  to 
keep  his  bed  many  a  da„ 

His  medical  confreres  visited  him,  and  one,  in  par- 
ticular, earnestly  urged  him  to  go  to  a  warm  climate. 

"Must  I  go  away,  leave  my  work  and  occupations 
to  die,  not  of  sickness,  but  of  ennui?"    "But,"  ar- 


40  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

gued  his  friend,  "no  one  likes  better  than  you  to  send 
people  off  for  a  change  of  air  during  the  winter. ' ' 

The  doctor  did  not  reply,  but  he  remained  in  Ma- 
drid, passing  sleepless  nights  and  coughing  ceaselessly. 

His  friends,  the  only  family  he  possessed,  took 
turns,  for  a  long  time  in  caring  for  him,  but,  as  the 
days  lengthened  into  weeks,  the  weeks  into  months 
and  each  one  gradually  began  to  find  that  his  own 
cares  absorbed  his  time,  it  was  agreed  upon  that  the 
best  thing  to  do  was  to  have  a  sister  of  charity  come 
and  nurse  the  doctor. 

Henceforth,  his  friends'  visits  grew  less  frequent, 
and  there  were  days  at  a  time  when  his  door  bell  did 
not  ring  once. 

Sor  Luz,  as  the  sister  of  charity  was  called,  proved 
to  be  a  perfect  substitute  for  all  his  other  attendants. 
Although  the  doctor  had  never  cared  for  women's 
society,  he  found  Sor  Luz  such  a  charming  companion 
that  he  refused  to  receive  other  people,  if  it  were  pos- 
sible. 

Her  white  head-dress  and  the  undulations  of  her 
soft  gown,  seemed  to  him  like  the  motions  of  a  dove's 
wings. 

Doctor  Santos  followed  her  with  an  affectionate  and 
grateful  glance,  thus  repaying  the  tender  and  solici- 
tous care  which  only  maternal  and  Christian  love 
could  give  with  such  absolute  abnegation  and  perse- 
verance. 

About  the  last  of  November,  that  harvest  time  of 
death,  when  a  few  golden  leaves  still  clung  to  the  trees, 
when  the  mountain  tops  were  covered  with  silver  and 
the  cold,  northerly  wind  penetrated  the  crevices  of 
doors  and  windows,  Doctor  Santos  began  to  grow 
worse. 

He  declared  in  his  will,  dated  years  before,  that  he 
had  no  property  and  that  whatever  was  found  in  the 
house  belonged,  by  right,  to  the  poor.  That  he  wished 
to  have  a  humble  funeral  and  be  buried  in  the  public 
cemetery. 


DOCTOR  SANTOS:     A  CHARACTER  SKETCH.     41 

In  looking  over  his  papers  and  effects,  a  tin  box  was 
found  containing  forty  banknotes  of  one  thousand 
pesetas  each. 

His  friends  declared  that  he  had  died  of  avarice. 
Sor  Luz  said  that  she  had  never  known  any  one  who 
had  passed  away  with  more  tranquil,  resigned  Chris- 
tian spirit  than  Doctor  Santos. 

Nevertheless,  she  often  spoke  of  some  phrases  of 
the  doctor's  which  were  utterly  incomprehensible  to 
her  and  for  which  she  could  not  account. 

"When  there  was  yet  time,"  he  said,  "I  had  the 
means  to  cure  myself.  It  would  have  been  so  easy, 
that  if  it  had  been  any  one  else  I  should  have  done 
80.  I  did  not  do  it  because  I  wished  to  preserve  my 
own  self-respect  and  to  have  some  merit  when  God 
called  me  to  a  better  life." 

—From  the  Spanish  of  Gustavo  Morales,  hy 
Jean  Raymond  Bidwell. 


IV. 
THE  CURING  OF  KATE  NEGLEY. 

TOLD  you  once,"  said  Mrs.  Melissa  AUgood, 
"about  the  time  Kate  Negley  took  that  leading 
on  the  lodge  line,  and  locked  the  doctor  out  of 
the  house  one  night  when  he  was  meeting  with  the 
Masons,  and  hollered  at  him  scornful-like,  when  he 
come  home,  to  'get  in  with  his  lodge-key;'  and  how 
the  doctor  smashed  up  her  fine  front  door  with  an  ax. 
Well,  all  the  Station  thought  that  might  be  the  end 
of  Kate's  foolishness,  and  that  maybe  she  would  take 
her  religion  and  sanctification  comfortable  after  that, 
same  as  other  folks.  And  everybody  was  glad  Dr. 
Negley  broke  that  door  in,  because  it  ain't  good  for 
Kate  Negley  or  any  other  human  to  have  their  own 
way  all  the  time. 

"So  Kate  went  along  quiet  and  peaceable  after  that 
for  two  or  three  months,  and  never  had  no  new  lead- 
ings to  tell  about  in  meeting,  and  never  did  a  thing 
to  show  she  had  heartfelt  religion  except  to  wear  her 
hair  straight  down  her  back,  according  to  Paul,  And 
ma  she  said  to  me  one  day  she  believed  Kate  had  come 
to  the  end  of  her  line,  and  was  going  to  act  like  sen- 
sible folks  the  rest  of  her  days.  But  I  told  ma  not 
to  waste  her  breath  in  vain  babblings ;  that  I  bet  Kate 
Negley  was  just  setting  on  a  new  nest,  and  for  ma 
to  wait  for  the  hatching. 

"I  hadn't  hardly  spoke  the  words  before  it  come. 
The  very  next  Sunday,  when  Brother  Cheatham  got 
through  preaching  and  called  for  experiences  and  tes- 
timonies, Kate  she  rose  and  said  she  was  mightily 
moved  to  rebuke  a  faithless  and  perverse  generation, 
puffed  up  in  its  fleshly  mmd,  loving  unrighteousness, 

(4.2) 


THE  CURING  OF  KATE  NEGLEY.  43 

and  abominable  in  wickedness.  She  said  she  had  been 
wandering  in  the  way  of  destruction  like  the  rest,  and 
putting  her  faith  in  lies,  till  the  last  few  weeks,  when 
light  begun  to  dawn  on  her,  and  she  commenced  to 
search  the  Scriptures  more.  She  said  she  was  fully 
persuaded  now,  halleluiah!  and  wanted  all  them  that 
desired  to  be  wholly  sanctified  to  enter  the  strait 
and  narrow  path  with  her.  She  said  the  gospel  she 
had  to  preach  to  them  that  morning  was  the  gospel 
of  healing  by  prayer  and  faith,  and  not  by  medicines 
or  doctors ;  that  though  she  had  lain  among  the  pots, 
like  the  rest  of  them,  yet  now  was  her  soul  like  the 
wings  of  a  dove,  and  forever  risen  above  all  such 
works  of  the  devil  as  ipecac  and  quinine  and  calomel ; 
that  only  in  the  Great  Physician  did  she  place  her 
trust;  that  as  for  earthly  doctors,  she  could  only  say 
to  them,  in  the  words  of  Job :  *  Ye  are  forgers  of  lies, 
ye  are  all  physicians  of  no  value. '  She  said  yea,  ver- 
ily, all  they  was  good  for  was  to  'beguile  unstable 
souls,  and  bewitch  the  people  with  sorceries;'  and  not 
only  that,  but,  like  Jeremiah  says,  'They  help  for- 
ward the  affliction.'  She  said  she  never  meant  to  say 
anything  against  doctors  as  men,  but  as  doctors  they 
was  vessels  of  wrath,  corrupters  of  souls,  firebrands 
of  the  devil,  and  the  liveliest  stumble-stones  in  the 
path  of  righteousness.  She  said  for  them  benighted 
folks  that  put  their  faith  in  physic  to  listen  to  Jere- 
miah's point-blank  words,  'Thou  hast  no  healing  medi- 
cines,' and  again,  'In  vain  shalt  thou  use  many  medi- 
cines ;  for  thou  shalt  not  be  healed. '  She  said  from  lid 
to  lid  of  the  Bible  there  wasn't  a  single  case  of  any- 
body being  cured  of  anything  by  either  doctors  or 
medicine ;  and  that  ought  to  be  enough  for  the  earnest 
Christian,  without  looking  any  farther.  But,  she  said, 
knowing  their  hard-heartedness,  she  had  studied  every 
verse  of  the  Scriptures  before  she  got  up  to  speak. 

* '  She  said  when  the  disciples  was  sent  out,  they  was 
told  to  preach  the  gospel,  heal  the  sick,  cleanse  the 
lepers,  and  east  out  devils ;  and  they  did  it.    She  said 


44  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

she'd  like  to  know  how  many  that  called  themselves 
disciples  nowadays  so  bigotty,  and  claimed  the  in- 
dwelling of  holiness,  ever  even  tried  to  do  any  of  them 
things,  except  talk,  let  alone  do  them.  She  said  it  was 
because  they  were  so  poor-spirited  they  didn't  have 
faith  to  lay  hold  of  the  promise,  though  there  it  was 
in  plain  words :  'Ask,  and  ye  shall  receive ; '  'Accord- 
ing to  your  faith  be  it  unto  you;'  'For  I  will  restore 
health  to  thee,  saith  the  Lord;'  'I  kill,  and  I  make 
alive;  I  wound,  and  I  heal.'  She  said,  bless  the  Lord, 
her  spiritual  eyes  was  open  now,  and  the  only  medi- 
cines she  would  ever  take  was  prayer  and  faith.  She 
said  James's  prescription  was  good  enough  for  her: 
'Pray  one  for  another,  that  ye  may  be  healed.  The 
effectual  fervent  prayer  of  the  righteous  availeth 
much;'  and  that  she  wanted  every  soul  in  the  Station 
to  get  to  the  same  point.  But,  she  said,  until  they 
did,  she  wanted  it  known  that  there  was  one  righteous 
soul  in  Sodom,  that  was  going  to  start  out  on  the  war- 
path against  the  devil  and  all  his  doctors.  She  said 
she  was  going  to  lay  hold  of  the  promise  of  James: 
*Is  any  sick  among  you?  let  him  call  for  the  elders 
of  the  church ;  and  let  them  pray  over  him,  anointing 
him  with  oil;  and  the  prayer  of  faith  shall  save  the 
sick,  and  the  Lord  shall  raise  him  up.'  She  said  she 
wanted  it  published  abroad  that  anybody  that  took 
sick  was  welcome  to  her  services  and  prayers,  without 
money  and  without  price.  She  said  for  all  her  hear- 
ers to  put  on  the  breastplate  of  faith  and  the  armor 
of  righteousness,  and  enter  in  at  the  strait  and  nar- 
row path  that  opened  into  her  front  door,  and  keep 
out  of  the  broad  way  that  led  to  the  doctor's  office. 
She  said  she  had  a  big  bottle  of  sweet-oil,  and  faith 
to  remove  mountains. 

"Well,  all  the  congregation  was  thunderstruck  at 
the  idea  of  Kate  Negley  setting  up  in  opposition  to 
her  own  husband.  Dr.  Negley  being  the  only  doctor 
at  the  Station.  Ma  said  that  anybody  could  have 
knocked  her  down  with  a  feather ;  and  I  know  it  made 


THE  CURING  OF  KATE  NEGLEY.  45 

me  right  weak  in  my  knees,  though,  of  course,  I  felt 
like  Kate  was  doing  right  to  follow  her  leadings,  and 
thought  she  was  mig'hty  courageous.  I  never  could  have 
done  it  myself,  especially  if  I'd  had  such  a  good  hus- 
band as  Kate.  I  have  traveled  about  more  than  Kate, 
and  I  know  that  hen's  teeth  ain't  scarcer  than  good 
men ;  yea,  like  Solomon  says,  '  One  among  a  thousand 
have  I  found.'  But  of  course  a  woman  never  appre- 
ciates what  she  has,  and  Kate  she  always  took  all  the 
doctor's  kindness  and  spoiling  like  it  was  her  birth- 
right, and  ding-donged  at  him  all  the  time  about  his 
not  having  any  religion  or  sanctification.  Now,  I 
reckon  you  've  lived  long  enough  to  know  that  there  are 
three  kinds  of  sanctified ;  them  that  are  sanctified  and 
know  it,  humble-like— such  as  me;  them  that  are  sanc- 
tified and  don't  know  or  even  suspicion  it;  and  them 
that  are  sanctified  and  know  it  too  well.  And  I  have 
told  ma  many  a  time  that  Dr.  Negley  is  one  of  the 
kind  that  is  sanctified  and  don't  know  it,  and  that 
Kate  might  pattern  after  the  doctor  in  some  ways,  to 
her  edification.  Somehow,  I've  always  felt  like  ten 
or  eleven  children  might  have  took  some  of  the  foolish- 
ness out  of  Kate;  but,  not  having  any,  she  was  just 
on  a  high  horse  about  something  or  other  all  the  time. 
"The  evening  after  Kate  did  that  talking  in 
church,  ma  saw  the  doctor  riding  by,  and  she  called 
him  to  the  fence  and  asked  him  if  he  had  heard  about 
Kate's  talk,  and  v/hat  he  thought  about  it.  And  he 
said  yes.  Brother  Jones  and  them  had  told  him  about 
it  down  at  the  post-office,  and  it  had  tickled  him 
might'ly;  that  he  thought  it  was  very  funny.  Ma 
told  him  she  should  think  it  would  make  him  mad  for 
Kate  to  get  up  and  talk  that  away  about  doctors  and 
medicine.  'Mrs.  Garry,'  he  says,  'women  are  women; 
and  one  of  their  charms  is  that  nobody  knows  what 
they're  going  to  do  next.  And  if  my  wife,'  he  says, 
'has  a  extry  allowance  of  charm,  I  certainly  ought  to 
feel  thankful  for  it. '  He  said  if  Kate  wanted  to  quar- 
rel with  her  bread  and  butter,  and  talk  away  his  prac- 


46  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

tice,  he  wasn't  going  to  raise  any  objections;  that  he 
needed  to  take  a  rest  anyhow,  having  worked  too  hard 
all  his  life.  He  said,  another  thing,  a  woman  that  took 
as  many  notions  as  Kate  eouldn  't  hold  on  to  any  one  of 
them  very  long,  but  was  bound  to  get  cured  of  it  be- 
fore much  harm  was  done. 

"Ma  she  told  me  what  he  said,  and  that,  in  her  opin- 
ion, Dr.  Negley  could  give  Job  lessons  in  patience. 

"Then  we  commenced  to  have  times  in  the  Station. 
The  first  thing  Kate  did  was  to  get  up  one  night  after 
the  doctor  had  gone  to  sleep,  and  go  down-stairs  and 
across  the  yard  to  his  office,  and  hunt  up  his  saddle- 
bags, and  stamp  on  them,  and  smash  every  bottle  in 
them,  and  then  sling  them  over  in  pa's  cornfield.  Pa 
he  found  them  out  there  in  the  morning  after  break- 
fast, and  took  them  to  the  doctor's  office;  and  he  said 
the  doctor  did  some  tall  swearing  when  he  saw  them. 
But  I  believe  that  was  a  slander  of  pa's,  because  I 
know  the  way  the  doctor  acted  afterwards.  At  dinner- 
time he  went  up  to  the  house  mighty  peaceful,  and  eat 
his  dinner,  and  then  he  says  to  Kate,  very  cheerful 
and  polite :  '  I  see  that  my  saddle-bags  have  met  with 
a  little  accident.  It's  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody 
good,'  he  says,  'and  I  don't  know  but  what  it's  a  fine 
thing  for  my  patients,  some  of  them  medicines  being 
powerful  stale.  But  it's  mighty  unfortunate  for  you, 
Kate, '  he  says,  *  for  I  will  be  obliged  to  use  up  all  your 
missionary  money  for  the  next  year  and  a  half  to  re- 
plenish them  saddle-bags,  times  being  so  hard,'  he 
says. 

"You  know  Kate  always  give  more  money  to  mis- 
sions than  any  woman  in  the  Station,— doctor  just 
couldn't  deny  her  anything,— and  she  prided  herself 
a  heap  on  it,  righteous  pride,  of  course.  She  was  just 
speechless  with  wrath  at  what  he  said,  and  she  saw 
she  'd  have  to  change  her  warfare  and  fall  back  on  the 
outposts. 

' '  So  she  started  out  and  went  to  see  the  women  in 
the  Station,  and  prayed  with  them,  and  strengthened 


THE  CURING  OF  KATE  NEGLEY.  47 

their  faith,  and  tried  to  make  them  promise  to  send  for 
her  if  anybody  got  sick,  and  not  for  the  doctor,  and 
worked  on  them  till  they  got  plumb  unsettled  in  their 
minds.  Some  of  them  went  to  Brother  Cheatham  and 
asked  him  about  it,  and  he  said  it  was  a  question  every- 
body must  decide  for  themselves,  but  there  certainly 
was  Scripture  for  it,  he  couldn't  deny.  It's  a  funny 
thing  what  poor  hands  some  preachers  are  at  practic- 
ing. Brother  Cheatham  couldn't  get  so  much  as  a 
crook  in  his  little  finger  but  what  Dr.  Negley  must 
come,  double-quick,  day  and  night.  I've  always  felt 
like  getting  their  doctoring  for  nothing  was  a  big 
drawback  to  preachers'  faith. 

**Kate  didn't  only  go  about  in  the  Station,  but  she 
would  keep  on  the  watch,  and  when  the  doctor  got  a 
call  to  the  country,  Kate  would  saddle  her  bay  mare 
and  follow  after  him,  sometimes  ten  or  fifteen  miles. 
By  the  time  she  would  get  to  the  sick  one 's  house,  the 
doctor  would  be  setting  by  the  bed,  feeling  the  pa- 
tient 's  pulse,  or  some  such ;  and  Kate  would  sail  across 
the  room,  with  never  so  much  as  'Howdy'  to  the  doc- 
tor, and  go  down  on  her  knees  the  other  side  of  the 
bed,  and  dab^a  little  sweet-oil  on  the  sick  person,  and 
pray  at  the  top  of  her  voice,  and  exhort  the  patient 
to  throw  away  the  vile  concoctions  of  the  devil,  and 
swing  out  on  the  promise  of  James.  And  the  doctor 
wouldn't  pay  no  more  attention  to  her  than  she  did  to 
him,  but  would  dose  out  the  medicine  and  go  on  about 
his  business,  as  pleasant  as  could  be.  After  he  was 
gone,  Kate  would  smash  up  all  the  bottles  in  sight,  if 
the  folks  wasn't  mighty  careful;  and  then  she  would 
follow  the  doctor  to  the  next  place,  never  any  more 
noticing  him  or  speaking  to  him  than  if  he  was  a 
fence-post.  She  said  when  the  doctor  was  at  home, 
he  was  her  husband,  though  unregenerate,  and  she 
was  going  to  treat  him  according  to  Scripture,  and  as 
polite  as  she  knew  how:  but  when  he  was  out  dosing 
the  sick,  he  was  an  angel  of  darkness,  and  not  fit  to  be 
so  much  as  looked  at  by  the  saved  and  sanctified. 


48  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

"Mary  Alice  Welden  was  one  of  the  first  to  take  up 
with  Kate's  notions— I've  always  believed  it  was  be- 
cause Dick  Welden  scoffed  at  them.  If  Dick  had  been 
a  quick  man,  he  never  would  have  done  it,  knowing 
well  that  the  only  way  to  get  Mary  Alice  to  do  like  he 
wanted  her  to  was  for  him  to  come  out  strong  on  the 
opposite  side.  But  it  takes  a  hundred  years  to  learn 
some  men  anything ;  and  what  did  Dick  do  that  Sun- 
day but  laugh  at  Kate's  notions  on  healing.  Ever 
since  Mary  Alice  had  shook  the  red  rag  at  Satan  by 
getting  up  and  shouting  in  church  one  time  when  Dick 
had  told  her  point-blank  she  shouldn't,  she  had  en- 
joyed a  heap  of  liberty,  and  Dick  he  had  been  dimin- 
ished, like  the  Bible  says.  So  when  Dick  laughed  at 
Kate,  Mary  Alice  fired  right  up  and  told  Dick  Welden 
that  never  another  doctor  or  bottle  of  medicine  should 
ever  step  over  her  door-sill,  and  that  the  next  time  any 
of  her  household  got  sick,  prayer  or  nothing  should 
cure  them. 

"So  the  next  time  her  little  Philury  had  spasms, 
Mary  Alice  sent  over  for  Kate;  and  when  Dick  come 
home  for  dinner,  he  found  all  the  doors  locked,  and 
looked  in  at  a  window,  and  there  was  Philury  in  fits 
on  the  bed,  and  Kate  and  Mary  Alice  praying  loud 
and  long  on  both  sides.  Dick  was  just  crazy,  and  he 
ran  up  the  street  for  the  doctor,  and  they  come  back 
and  broke  in  the  window,  and  there  was  Philury  lay- 
ing quiet  and  peaceful  and  breathing  regular,  and 
Kate  and  Mary  Alice  shouting  and  glorifying  God 
for  casting  a  devil  out  of  Philury.  That  gave  Kate  a 
big  reputation,  and  stirred  the  Station  to  the  dregs. 
And  even  the  doctor  said  it  was  only  by  the  grace  of 
God  that  Philury  pulled  through  under  the  circum- 
stances. 

*  *  Sister  Sally  Barnes  had  been  laying  up  for  nearly 
a  year  with  a  misery  in  her  back,  and  the  doctor  had 
give  her  physic,  and  she  had  took  up  all  the  patent 
medicines  she  could  borrow  or  raise  money  to  buy,  but 
there  she  laid,  and  expected  to  lay  the  rest  of  her  days. 


THE  C URING  OF  KATE  NEGLE Y.  49 

Kate  went  up  there  one  day  and  expounded  Bible  to 
her  and  anointed  her  with  that  oil,  and  prayed  over 
her  for  about  two  hours,  and  then  told  her  to  rise  and 
cook  dinner,  that  the  Lord  had  healed  her.  And  up 
Sister  Sally  got,  and  has  been  up  ever  since.  Of  course 
everybody  was  excited  and  talking  about  it.  Ma  asked 
Dr.  Negley  one  day  what  he  thought  about  it,  and  he 
said  it  was  a  mighty  fine  thing  for  Sister  Sally's  fam- 
ily, and  that  Kate's  medicine  was  certainly  better  for 
some  folks  than  his. 

"That  healing  gave  Kate  a  big  name,  and  folks  be- 
gun to  send'  for  her  right  and  left.  Some  would  send 
for  her  and  the  doctor  both,  thinking  it  just  as  well 
to  be  on  the  safe  side  and  not  neglect  either  faith  or 
works.  I  reckon  it  did  the  sick  good  just  to  lay  eyea 
on  Kate,  she  was  such  a  fine,  healthy,  rosy-cheeked 
woman,  and  never  had  had  a  day's  sickness  to  pull 
her  down. 

"Then  come  along  the  time  for  Sister  Nickin's 
shingles.  For  seven  years  old  Sister  Nickins,  Tommy 
T.'s  ma,  had  took  down  regular,  every  Washington's 
Birthday,  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  with  the 
shingles.  Everybody  thought  a  duck  could  as  soon 
get  along  without  water  as  Sister  Nickins  without  her 
shingles ;  and  she  never  dreamt  of  such  a  thing  as  not 
having  them.  They  never  got  to  the  breaking-out 
stage  with  her  but  once,  but  she  was  scared  to  death 
every  time  for  fear  they  would  break  out,  and  run  all 
around  her  and  meet,  and  of  course  that  will  Idll  any- 
body dead.  So  she  used  to  make  her  will  and  give 
away  her  gray  mule  every  year,  beforehand. 

"This  time  Kate  sent  Sister  Nickins  word  not  fo 
make  no  will  or  give  away  the  mule ;  that  she  was  go- 
ing to  cast  them  shingles  into  the  bottomless  pit  by 
prayer.  So,  at  sun-up  on  the  22d,  Kate  went  up  to 
Sister  Nickins 's  house,  and  set  into  praying  and 
anointing,  and  by  ten  o'clock  she  had  Sister  Nickins 
so  full  of  grace  and  glory  that  the  devil  or  the  shingles 
couldn't  get  within  a  mile  of  her,  and  she  never  felt  a 


50  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

single  pain.  And  of  all  the  Iialleluiah  times,  that  was 
one.  You  could  hear  the  shouting  all  over  town,  and 
nearly  all  the  Station  went  up  there.  I  went  myself, 
and  saw  Sister  Nickins  with  my  own  eyes,  up  and 
about,  and  full  of  rejoicings,  and  not  a  shingle  to  her 
name.  I  thought  it  was  wonderful.  It  seemed  just 
like  Bible  times  over  again.  And  Sister  Nickins  was 
80  lifted  up  over  it  that  she  mounted  her  gray  mule 
after  dinner  and  started  out  on  a  three  months'  visita- 
tion through  the  county,  to  spread  the  news  abroad 
amongst  her  kin  and  friends. 

"That  was  the  winter  I  felt  the  inward  call  to 
preach,  but  never  got  no  outward  invitations.  So, 
while  I  was  having  that  trial  of  patience,  I  thought 
I  might  as  well  help  Kate  some,  though  I  knew  my  call 
was  to  preach,  and  not  to  heal.  And  I  would  go  around 
a  good  deal  with  Kate,  though  I  never  was  just  as  ram- 
pant as  she  was,  or  as  Mary  Alice  Welden,  and  always 
allowed  that  doctors  might  have  their  uses. 

**One  day  Kate  came  by  for  me  to  go  up  with  her 
to  pray  over  old  Mis'  Gerton's  rheumatism.  So  up 
we  went,  and  Kate  told  old  Mis '  Gerton  what  we  come 
for,  and  Mis'  Gerton  said  she  never  had  no  objections, 
that  prayer  certainly  couldn't  do  no  harm,  and  oil 
was  good  for  the  joints.  So  I  poured  on  the  oil,  and 
Kate  did  the  praying.  In  about  an  hour  Kate  jumped 
up  and  told  old  Mis'  Gerton  to  get  up  and  walk,  that 
the  prayer  of  faith  had  healed  her.  *No  such  a  thing,* 
old  Mis'  Gerton  says;  'them  knees  is  worse  than  when 
you  commenced. '  Kate  got  red  in  the  face,  and  said  of 
course  the  grace  was  thrown  away  on  them  that 
wouldn't  accept  of  it.  Old  Mis'  Gerton  said  she 
couldn't  tell  no  lies;  that  she  felt  worse  instead  of  bet- 
ter ;  that  pain  was  pain,  and  rheumatism  was  rheuma- 
tism, as  well  they  knew  that  had  it.  She  said  she  never 
meant  no  disrespect,  but  that  in  her  opinion  prayer 
couldn't  hold  a  candle  to  Dr.  Hayhurst's  Wildcat  Lin- 
iment as  a  pain-killer.  Of  course  Kate  was  horror- 
struck,  and  she  wiped  the  dust  of  old  Mis'  Gerton's 
house  off  of  her  feet  when  we  went  out. 


THE  CURING  OF  KATE  NEGLEY.  51 

"Then  what  should  pa  do  about  that  time  but  take 
down  with  the  yellow  janders.  You  know,  and  every- 
body knows,  that  pa  never  did  have  a  bit  of  religion. 
I  would  hate  to  say  such  a  thing  about  an  own  rela- 
tion, but  pa  being  my  stepfather,  and  the  second  one 
at  that,  I  feel  like  he 's  kind  of  far-removed.  "Well,  ma 
would  have  been  a  mighty  religious  woman  if  she 
hadn't  been  unequally  yoked  together  with  unbeliev- 
ers three  times.  That's  enough  to  wear  a  woman's 
religion  to  a  frazzle,  goodness  knows;  and  I  have  al- 
ways made  excuses  for  ma.  So  when  pa  got  sick  and 
told  ma  to  send  for  the  doctor,  ma,  being  one  of  those 
women  that  is  always  trying  to  serve  two  masters,  her 
husband  and  her  religion,  sent  for  the  doctor  and  Kate 
both.  And  when  I  got  there,  a  few  minutes  later, 
there  set  the  doctor  by  pa 's  bed,  and  Kate  and  ma  back 
in  the  kitchen,  and  every  time  Kate  would  start  over 
the  door-sill  into  pa's  room,  to  pour  the  oil  on  him 
and  pray  over  him,  pa  would  set  up  in  bed  and  shake 
his  fist  at  her,  and  swear  a  blue  streak,  and  tell  her  not 
to  come  another  step.  Ma  and  me  we  nearly  went 
through  the  earth  for  shame  at  pa;  and  of  course  he 
never  would  have  done  it  if  his  liver  had  been  right, 
for  I  will  say  this  for  pa,  he  is  a  polite,  mild-mannered 
man,  and  slow  to  wrath,  when  he  hasn't  got  the  jan- 
ders. Then  Kate  would  flop  down  on  the  kitchen  floor 
and  thank  the  Lord  she  was  being  persecuted  for 
righteousness'  sake.  And  a  good  many  people  dropped 
in,  hearing  the  noise ;  and  everybody  was  plumb  scan- 
dalized at  pa,  and  said  he  was  a  downright  infidel,  and 
all  their  sympathies  was  roused  for  Kate. 

**  After  that  she  had  a  bigger  business  than  ever,  in 
spite  of  a  set-back  or  two,  like  old  Mis'  Gerton's  rheu- 
matism, and  Brother  Gilly  Jones's  baby  dying  one 
night  of  the  croup  when  him  and  Kate  was  praying 
over  it  and  wouldn't  send  for  the  doctor.  Kate  said 
that  it  was  the  Lord's  will,  and  the  baby's  appointed 
time  to  die ;  and  Brother  Gilly  Jones,  being  sanctified, 
and  having  eight  more  children  anyhow,  he  agreed 


52  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

with  Kate,  and  said  he  felt  perfectly  resigned ;  though 
Sister  Jones,  poor  thing,  never  has  got  reconciled  to 
this  day. 

"Of  course  those  things  never  fazed  Kate,  and  she 
was  just  on  the  top  notch  all  the  time,  and  going  day 
and  night.  And  every  Sunday  there  would  be  testi- 
monials in  church  about  healings,  and  faith  begun  to 
take  hold  on  both  sanctified  and  sinner,  till  it  actually 
got  to  the  point  that  folks'  religion  was  doubted  if  they 
sent  for  a  doctor.  And  when  spring  opened  up,  the 
doctor  said  his  occupation  was  so  near  gone  that  he  felt 
Justified  in  going  on  that  camp-hunt  he  had  been  want- 
ing to  make  for  fourteen  years ;  so  he  made  up  a  party 
of  men— Masons  and  such— and  went  down  on  Green 
River  for  two  weeks'  hunting. 

''Well,  you  ought  to  have  seen  Kate  that  morning 
the  doctor  left.  He  wasn't  out  of  sight  before  she 
turned  loose  a-shouting  over  the  triumph  of  righteous- 
ness, and  over  having  actually  run  the  devil  out  of 
town ;  and  she  held  a  thanks-meeting  up  at  her  house 
that  night,  and  we  had  a  full-salvation  time. 

**Kate  invited  me  to  stay  with  her  while  the  doctor 
was  gone;  so  I  shooed  my  chickens  down  to  ma's,  so's 
I  could  have  my  mind  free  from  worldly  cares,  and 
shut  up  my  house,  and  went.  We  had  a  mighty  joy- 
ful, edifying  time  for  two  days. 

"The  third  night  Kate  woke  me  up  sudden  from 
a  good  sleep,  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
'Melissy,'  she  says,  'get  up  and  light  the  lamp.  I  don't 
know  what  on  earth's  the  matter  with  me,'  she  says; 
*I  feel  awful,  and  have  got  all  the  aches  there  is  in- 
side of  me. '  *  For  goodness '  sake,  Kate, '  I  says,  rolling 
out  of  bed,  *I  reckon  you  are  getting  the  grippe.'  She 
groaned.  'It's  worse  than  the  grippe,  Melissy  All- 
good,'  she  says;  'I  feel  like  I'm  going  to  die.*  I  lit 
the  lamp  and  brought  it  over  by  the  bed.  *I  do  be- 
lieve you  have  got  some  fever,  Kate,'  I  says.  *I  am 
eat  up  with  it,'  she  says,  'and  with  aches,  and  have 
a  terrible  gone  feeling  all  over.    I  tell  you,  Melissy, 


THE  C URING  OF  KATE  NEGLE Y.  53 

I'm  an  awful  sick  woman.  Oh,  what  shall  I  do— what 
shall  I  do?'  *Do?'  I  says,  no  little  surprised.  'Why, 
pray,  of  course.'  'Well,'  she  says,  kind  of  faint-like, 
'you'd  better  be  about  it.' 

' '  I  was  a  little  outdone  by  her  lukewarniness,  but  I 
got  down  on  my  knees  and  went  to  praying.  Kate  kept 
up  a  consid'able  groaning.  In  about  five  minutes  she 
says:  'Get  up  from  there,  Melissy  Allgood,  and  do 
something  for  me.  I'm  a  terrible  sick  woman,'  she 
says.  'Gracious  sakes  alive,  Kate,'  I  says,  'there  ain't 
another  thing  I  can  do  but  anoint  you  with  the  oil.' 
I  run  and  brought  the  sweet-oil.  '  Take  it  away ! '  she 
says.  '  The  smell  of  it  makes  me  sick !  I  won 't  have 
it!'  I  was  completely  dazed,  and  it  seemed  to  me  like 
the  world  was  turning  upside  down.  But  what  can 
you  expect  of  a  woman  that  don't  know  what  the  feel- 
ing of  pain  is,  and  never  had  a  sick  day  since  she  was 
a  young  child  and  got  through  the  catching  age?  I 
fell  down  on  my  knees  and  went  to  praying  again,  not 
knowing  just  what  to  do.  Kate  stopped  me  again. 
'Melissy  Allgood,'  she  says,  'are  you  going  to  let  me 
lay  here  and  die,  and  not  stretch  out  even  a  finger  to 
help  me?'  she  says.  'Why,  Kate,'  I  says,  plumb  petri- 
fied, 'you  know  I'm  doing  the  very  best  that  can  be 
done.'  I  says:  'You  must  have  patience  and  faith, 
and  wait  on  the  time  of  the  Lord.'  'Oh!'  she  says, 
fairly  crying,  'what  on  earth  made  the  doctor  go  ofi: 
and  leave  me  ?  He  might  have  known  something  would 
happen  to  me.  He  ought  to  have  stayed  here,  wdiere 
he  belongs!  He'd  know  what  to  do  for  me  if  he  was 
here,'  she  says.  'He  wouldn't  let  his  own  dear  wife 
lay  here  and  die ! ' 

"  'Kate,^'  I  says,  'you  are  wandering,  the  worst  kind, 
I'm  going  after  Mary  Alice  Welden.'  So  I  slipped 
on  my  shoes  and  dress  and  run  down  the  street  to 
Mary  Alice's,  and  we  hurried  back  as  fast  as  we  could. 
I  told  Mary  Alice  that  Kate  was  sick,  and  out  of  her 
mind  to  that  extent  she  was  calling  for  the  doctor. 
Mary  Alice  said  she  certainly  must  be  mighty  bad  off, 


64  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

and  that  we  must  pray  with  abounding  faith,  and  be 
firm.  When  we  got  back,  Kate  was  still  a-groaning 
and  crying.  Mary  Alice  told  her  to  cease  her  com- 
plainings and  put  her  trust  in  One  who  was  mighty 
to  save.  Then  Mary  Alice  snatched  up  the  bottle  of 
sweet-oil  that  set  there  on  the  table,  and  started  at 
Kate  with  it.  *She  won't  have  it  on  her,'  I  says,  'it 
ain  't  no  use  to  try. '  '  She 's  got  to  have  it, '  Mary  Alice 
says,  'whether  she  wants  it  or  not.  It's  a  part  of 
James's  directions.'  Kate  begun  to  holler  and  throw 
out  her  arms  when  she  saw  the  oil  coming.  'Take  it 
away,'  she  says;  'it  makes  me  sick!'  'You  hold  her 
hands,'  Mary  Alice  says,  'while  I  pour  it  on  her.'  So 
I  set  down  and  took  a  good  grip  on  Kate 's  hands,  and 
Mary  Alice  poured  the  oil  on  her,  and  it  went  all  over 
her  face  and  head  and  the  pillow,  she  kept  threshing 
around  so  lively,  and  hollering  till  her  mouth  was  fuU. 
Then  Kate  she  cried  and  carried  on,  and  said  we  were 
treating  her  shameful,  and  would  be  sorry  for  it  when 
she  was  dead  and  gone:  We  never  paid  any  attention 
to  her,  of  course,  but  got  down  on  both  sides  of  the 
bed  and  went  to  praying  as  loud  and  earnest  as  we 
could,  so  as  to  drown  the  groaning.  Then  Kate  said 
she  didn't  want  to  be  prayed  for  nohow,  that  what  she 
wanted  was  the  doctor.  Mary  Alice  told  her  she  was 
plumb  out  of  her  senses,  and  didn't  know  what  she 
was  talking  about.  And  Kate  said,  no  such  a  thing; 
that  she  was  a  mighty  sick  woman,  but  she  was  in  her 
right  mind,  and  knew  what  she  wanted,  and  that  it 
was  the  doctor.  She  said  the  doctor  was  the  only  friend 
she  had  on  earth.  She  said  the  doctor  wouldn't  stand 
by  and  see  her  die  and  never  lift  a  hand,  and  she  knew 
it.  She  said  he  would  know  of  something  to  give  her 
that  would  ease  them  aches  and  pains,  and  let  her  die 
in  peace.  But  she  said  of  course  if  the  doctor  was 
there  she  wouldn't  need  to  die— that  he  would  save 
her.  She  set  up  in  bed.  'Melissy  Allgood,' she  says, 
*  run  over  and  tell  your  pa  to  mount  his  horse  and  ride 
for  the  doctor, '  she  says,  '  and  never  stop  till  he  finds 


THE  CURING  OF  KATE  NEGLEY.  55 

him!'  'Land  of  the  living,  Kate,'  I  says,  'you  know 
the  doctor  is  thirty  mile  and  more  away,  and  nobody 
knows  where  he 's  at  by  now. '  '  Tell  Mr.  Garry  I  say 
not  to  stop  till  he  finds  him!'  Kate  says.  'And  to 
keep  life  in  me  till  he  gets  Jiere,'  she  says,  'I  want  old 
Dr.  Pegram,  at  Dixie,  sent  for  immediate.  He  ought 
[to  get  here  in  three  hours'  time.  You  tell  Tommy  T. 
Nickins  to  take  my  mare  and  go  for  fiim,  quick ! '  she 
'says.  'And  Mary  Alice  Welden,  you  go  down  in  the 
cellar  and  bring  me  one  of  those  bottles  of  blackberry 
cordial,  to  keep  up  my  strength  till  Dr.  Pegram 
comes.  * 

"Mary  Alice  and  me  were  smitten  dumb  right  there 
where  we  was  at,  on  our  knees.  'Kate  Negley,'  I  got 
the  voice  to  say,  'are  you  sure  them  are  your  right- 
minded  wishes,  and  not  the  devil  speaking  through 
you?'  'I  tell  you  to  do  what  I  say,  and  hurry  up!' 
Kate  says.     'Do  you  reckon  I  want  to  die  ?' 

"Mary  Alice  rose  and  walked  out  with  never  a 
word ;  but  if  I  ever  saw  complete  disgust  wrote  on  any- 
body's face,  it  was  hers.  I  had  to  go  down  and  get  the 
blackberry  cordial  myself,  and  you  ought  to  have  seen 
Kate  make  away  with  it.  Then  I  went  out  and  started 
off  Tommy  T.  and  pa. 

"Old  Dr.  Pegram  was  there  insida  of  three  hours, 
dosing  out  big  pills  for  Kate  to  take  every  half-hour, 
and  powders  every  fifteen  minutes ;  and  it  looked  like 
Kate  couldn't  swallow  them  fast  enough  to  suit  her. 
Dr.  Pegram  told  ma  and  me  that  Kate  had  a  mild  case 
of  the  grippe,  and  there  wasn't  no  earthly  danger. 

"Wlien  Dr.  Negley  and  pa  come  poking  in  after 
midnight  that  night,  wore  out  and  muddy,  you  never 
saw  as  happy  a  woman  in  your  life  as  Kate.  She 
laughed  and  she  cried,  and  she  hugged  the  doctor,  and 
she  kissed  him,  and  she  said  there  never  was  anybody 
like  him,  that  he  was  her  sweet  angel  from  heaven,  and 
the  dearest  darling  on  earth,  and  she  knew  she 
wouldn't  have  no  chance  to  die,  now  he  had  come  and 
would 'know  just  what  to  do  for  her.  And  I  reckon  the 


56  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

doctor  was  the  worst-astonished  man  that  ever  was; 
but  he  was  a  heap  too  polite  and  kind  to  let  on,  and 
went  on  dosing  out  physic  for  her  just  as  if  there 
wasn't  anything  out  of  the  common.  And  never  a 
word  did  he  ever  say  to  her,  either,  about  having  his 
camp-hunt  broke  up ;  and  that 's  the  reason  I  Tinow 
he 's  sanctified,  for,  like  I  told  ma,  what  sainted  martyr 
could  do  better? 

"Of  course  the  Station  was  shaken  to  the  founda- 
tions over  Kate  acting  that  way,  and  there  was  a  big 
time  of  rejoicing  amongst  the  scoffers.  And  Mary 
Alice  Welden  hasn't  spoken  to  Kate  since,  and  says 
she  never  will.  But  I  tell  Mary  Alice  she  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  herself;  that  she's  too  ready  in  her  judg- 
ments, and  needs  to  make  allowance  for  humans  being 
humans,  and  for  folks  changing  with  circumstances." 

Lucy  S.  Furman. 


A  DOCTOR'S  STORY. 

JROFT  HOUSE,  at  the  end  of  tho  village,  that 
had  stood  vacant  so  long,  was  let  at  last.  A 
ladder  leaned  against  the  wall ;  a  painter  was 
painting  the  shutters,  a  gardener  digging  in  the  gar- 
den. 

Day  by  day  the  aspect  of  the  place  improved.  Soft 
muslin  shades  shrouded  the  windows,  flowers  bloomed 
where  only  weeds  had  grown ;  the  garden  paths  were 
laid  with  gravel.  One  night  a  travelling  carriage  was 
driven  rapidly  through  the  village  and  in  at  the  gate 
leading  to  Croft  House. 

Whence  came  the  vehicle  ?  Wlio  its  occupants  ?  No 
one  knew,  but  everyone  desired  to  know.  Nothing 
that  took  place  within  that  dwelling  transpired  out- 
side. In  passing  by,  one  saw  only  that  the  standard 
roses  flourished  and  that  the  grass  grew  greener.  "What 
comments  were  made  on  the  mysterious  and  invisible 
inhabitants !    What  strange  tales  circulated ! 

I,  the  village  doctor,  concerned  myself  little  enough 
about  the  matter.  The  occupants  of  Croft  House  were 
no  doubt  human  beings,  and  as  such  must  suffer  some 
of  the  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to ;  in  that  case  my  services 
would  be  required.     I  waited  patiently. 

A  week  went  by ;  and  one  morning  before  I  set  off 
on  my  rounds,  a  messenger  arrived  requesting  me  to 
call  on  Mr.  Wilton  of  Croft  House.  Dressing  myself 
with  more  than  ordinary  care,  I  crossed  the  village 
green,     I  was  young,  and  felt  important, 

I  was  shown  into  the  drawing-room.  It  was  gay 
with  summer  flowers,  redolent  of  their  perfume.  On 
a  couch  lay  a  young  girl,  in  appearance  almost  a  child, 

(57) 


58  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

She  was  pale,  delicate  looking,  and  very  lovely.  In 
front  of  her  knelt  a  young  man  of  two  or  three  and 
twenty— one  of  the  handsomest  young  fellows  I  had 
ever  seen.  He  held  the  hands  of  the  beautiful  girl,  and 
they  were  looking  into  each  other's  eyes.  As  I  ap- 
proached he  rose,  bowed,  and  welcomed  me  with  an 
easy  grace  that  won  my  heart. 

"I  confess  I  expected  to  find  the  village  doctor  an 
older  man,"  he  said  with  a  frank  smile  as  he  offered 
me  his  hand.  *'It  is  for  my  wife  I  desired  your  at- 
tendance, ' '  he  continued,  looking  at  her  with  the  deep- 
est affection.    "Una  is  not  strong." 

Then  at  a  sign  from  him,  I  sat  down  beside  the 
couch  of  my  interesting  patient. 

"You  are  very  young,  Mrs.  Wilton,"  I  remarked. 
It  was  certainly  rather  a  leading  question. 

**I  am  seventeen,  doctor,"  she  answered  simply. 
"We  have  been  married  only  a  few  months.  We  are 
strangers  here,  and  wish  to  be  so.  Oh,  Charlie,  please 
explain,"  she  asked,  turning  to  her  husband  with  a 
faint  blush.    "You  can  do  it  better  far  than  I. 

He  bent  over,  kissed  her  on  the  forehead,  then 
straightening  himself  and  looking  at  me,  said:  "In 
attending  my  wife,  Dr.  Gray,  I  must  ask  you  to  under- 
take a  double  duty.  We  have  decided  to  tell  you  our 
secret— in  part- so  that  while  we  are  your  patients, 
I  trust  we  may  look  upon  you  as  our  friend— one  who 
will  assist  us  in  keeping  our  secret  and  in  living  the 
entirely  secluded  life  we  desire  to  lead  here.  Wilton 
is  an  assumed  name.  My  father  refused  to  acknowl- 
edge my  marriage  with  the  girl  I  love.  Ser  father 
withheld  his  consent  to  his  daughter  marrying  into  a 
family  too  proud  to  receive  her.  We  would  have 
waited  any  reasonable  time;  but,  when  our  parents 
sought  to  separate  us  entirely,  we  took  our  lives  into 
our  own  hands.  We  married,  and  hope— in  time— to 
be  forgiven. 

They  had  both  spoken  to  me  with  the  candour  of 
youth,  of  love,  and  of  inexperience.    It  takes  very  lit- 


A  DOCTOR'S  STORY.  59 

tie  sometimes  to  bring  a  doctor  into  close  relations  with 
his  patients.  I  seemed  to  become  the  friend  of  this 
interesting  young  couple  at  once.  I  assured  them  they 
need  not  fear  being  intruded  upon  by  the  villagers, 
arid  the  only  gentlemen 's  residences  within  calling  dis- 
tance were  tenantless  at  that  season  of  the  year,  the 
owners  either  being  up  in  London  or  travelling  abroad. 
As  to  the  vicar,  he  was  a  man  whose  advanced  age  and 
infirmities  effectually  precluded  him  from  visiting 
more  than  was  absolutely  necessary  among  his  par- 
ishioners. 

**If  you  go  to  the  church— a  mile  from  here,"  said 
I,  "he  may  or  may  not' call  upon  you.  If  you  do  not 
go,  I  think  I  may  safely  say  he  will  not  consider  it 
necessary.  'In  that  case  you  will  probably  never  meet, ' ' 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wilton  thanked  me  warmly,  pressing 
me  to  come  to  see  them  frequently,  which  I  did  with 
ever-increasing  pleasure  as  the  beautiful  romance  of 
these  two  loving  hearts  unfolded  itself.  I  soon  dis- 
covered that  Mr.  Wilton  had  received  a  college  edu- 
cation ;  I  also  gleaned  that  ' '  Una ' '  was  somewhat  his 
inferior  in  social  position,  and  that  since  their  run- 
away marriage  they  had  been  travelling  abroad.  It 
was  no  business  of  mine  to  know  more  than  they  chose 
to  tell.  I  respected  their  secret,  and  asked  no  ques- 
tions. 

One  morning— my  visits  had  become  almost  daily 
now— I  saw  at  once  that  there  was  something  wrong 
with  Mrs.  Wilton,  and  she  saw  also  that  I  perceived  it. 

*'You  need  not  feel  my  pulse,  doctor;  it  is  my 
heart,"  she  said  in  answer  to  my  looks.  *'You  will 
think  me  foolishly  weak,  I  know,"  she  added,  forcing 
a  smile,  "but  I  am  miserable  because  my  husband  is 
going  to  leave  me." 

*  *  Leave  you !   For  how  long  ? "  I  inquired  anxiously. 

She  blushed,  and,  looking  down,  answered  shyly, 
"Till  this  evening.  Ah,  don't  laugh,"  she  implored; 
"we  have  never  been  separated  for  so  long  since  we 
were  married.    I  am  nervous  and  fanciful,  I  suppose. 


60  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

but  I  scarcely  slept  last  night  for  thinking  of  it,  and 
when  I  did,  a  dreadful  dream  kept  repeating  itself— 

**0h,  you  must  not  mind  dreams,"  I  answered. 

**I  never  did  much  before,  but  this— ah,  Charlie!" 
she  cried,  as  Mr.  Wilton  came  in  booted  and  spurred, 
**I  will  come  and  see  you  mount." 

I  saw  the  parting  from  the  drawing-room  window 
where  I  stood— saw  her  husband  place  his  hands  on 
either  side  of  the  sweet  face,  and  gaze  dov/n  into  it 
with  a  look  of  unutterable  love;  saw  their  lips  meet 
together  for  a  moment ;  after  that  he  kissed  her  fore- 
head and  her  beautiful  fair  hair,  then  sprang  into  the 
saddle,  and  rode  off  swiftly  as  though  he  could  not 
trust  himself  to  linger  longer.  At  the  gate,  turning, 
he  waved  a  last  farewell. 

She  came  into  the  drawing-room  presently. 

** Doctor,  excuse  me.  I  think  I  will  lie  down,"  she 
said,  her  large  blue  eyes  looking  peculiarly  plaintive, 
brimming  as  they  were  with  tears.  My  presence  was 
not  needed  then.    I  bowed  and  took  my  leave. 

But  the  evening  of  that  day  I  was  sent  for  to  Croft 
House. 

"He  has  not  returned,"  were  the  first  words  spoken 
by  Mrs.  Wilton,  as  I  entered  the  drawing-room.  *  *  And, 
oh !  what  a  day  it  has  been, ' '  she  continued  feverishly ; 
"so  long,  so  sad !  I  seem  to  have  lived  a  cruel  lifetime 
in  each  hour." 

"But  it  is  not  late.  You  said  Mr.  Wilton  would 
not  return  till  evening,"  I  urged. 

"It  has  been  evening  a  long  time  now.  See,  the  sun 
is  setting.    Then  it  will  be  night."    She  shuddered. 

I  sat  with  her  an  hour,  perhaps,  trying  in  vain  to 
distract  her  thoughts.  And  I  too— knowing  not  how 
or  why— became  uneasy.  She  told  me  her  husband 
had  gone  to  D ,  the  nearest  town,  for  letters  he  ex- 
pected to  find  at  the  post-office.  I  knew  that  I  could 
have  ridden  there  and  back  easily  in  the  time.  Still, 
a  thousand  simple  causes  might  have  delayed  him.  I 
begged  her  to  take  courage,  suggesting  she  would  prob- 


A  DOCTOR'S  STORY.  61 

ably  laugh  to-morrow  at  the  fears  she  had  entertained 
to-day.    But  she  shook  her  head. 

'*I  suffer  too  much  ever  to  laugh  at  such  feelings  as 
these,"  she  said  in  a  half -whisper.  "I  do  not  wish  to 
think  it,  but  it  is  as  though  I  knew  something  dreadful 
was—  Oh,  I  cannot,  I  dare  not  clothe  the  terrible 
thought  in  words.  That  would  make  it  seem  so  real— 
so  almost  certain.  Dr.  Gray,  can  this  be  the  punish- 
ment for  my  disobedience— come  so  soon?"  she  asked 
in  awestruck  tones. 

I  could  not  answer  her,  but  proposed  that  she  should 
wrap  a  mantle  round  her  and  come  with  me  into  the 
garden  to  watch  for  her  husband.  She  thanked  me 
gratefully,  and  I  carried  a  basket  seat  out  for  her  and 
placed  it  on  the  la^vn. 

Sitting  with  her  hands  clasped  about  her  knees- 
paler,  more  fragile,  more  childish  looking  than  I  had 
ever  seen  her— of  a  sudden  I  felt,  rather  than  saw,  that 
a  change  had  come  to  her.  She  bent  forward  as 
though  listening  intently,  and  at  the  same  moment  a 
distant  sound  struck  on  my  ear— the  galloping  of  a 
horse  on  the  high  road. 

Was  there  ever  before  on  human  countenance  such  a 
beatified  expression  as  that  which  dawned  and  deep- 
ened on  Mrs.  Wilton's  as  the  sound  approached?  It 
was  close  to  us  now,  but  the  trees  in  the  garden  hid 
the  road  from  our  view.  Without  slackening  speed 
the  horse  galloped  in  at  the  open  gate. 

"Oh,  Charlie,  Charlie!  Oh,  thank  God!"  cried  the 
girl,  in  what  seemed  a  wild,  ungovernable  ecstasy  of 
gratitude  and  joy.  But  I  pulled  her  back  or  the  horse 
would  have  been  upon  her. 

Then  I  saw  that  the  animal  was  riderless,  covered 
with  dust  and  foam ;  that  the  bridle  hung  loose,  drag- 
ging on  the  gravel. 

A  groom  who  had  been  on  the  watch  came  out.  In 
another  moment  all  the  household  were  assembled  on 
the  lawn. 

Mrs.  Wilton  had  fallen  back,  as  I  thought  fainting, 


62  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

in  my  arms.  But  no,  her  senses  had  not  forsaken  her. 
She  raised  herself  and  pointed  in  the  direction  the 
horse  had  come. 

"He  lies  there,  there!"  she  cried,  and  pushing  me 
from  her,  ran  forward  towards  the  gate.  I  bade  the 
servants  bring  lanterns  and  follow  me.  To  Mrs.  Wil- 
ton, who  was  out  in  the  road  by  this  time,  I  said  all  I 
could  say  to  dissuade  her  from  going  with  me ;  but  my 
words  fell  on  deaf  ears.  Feeling  it  was  useless— in 
one  sense  cruel— to  persist,  I  compelled  her  to  take  my 
arm.  Endowed  for  the  time,  by  excitement,  with  al- 
most superhuman  strength,  she  seemed  to  drag  me  for- 
ward rather  than  to  lean  on  me.  After  proceeding 
about  a  mile,  we  came  to  a  bit  of  level  road  which  for 
some  distance  in  front  showed  clear  and  distinct  in 
the  moonlight.  Here,  I  felt  certain,  we  had  lost  all 
trace  of  the  horse's  shoe  marks,  which  hitherto  had 
been  every  now  and  again  perceptible  in  the  dusty 
highway. 

** There  is  a  shorter  cut— if  he  knew  of  it,"  I  said, 
and  stopped. 

**Then  if  there  is  he  would  come  by  it— he  would  be 
sure  to  find  out  and  come  by  it,"  she  cried. 

And  I  led  her  back  a  little  distance  to  a  gate  at  the 
entrance  of  a  wood,  where  sure  enough  were  traces 
sufficient  to  show  we  were  again  on  the  right  track. 
Servants  with  lanterns  had  overtaken  us  by  this  time ; 
so,  calling  out  at  intervals  and  listening  in  vain  for  a 
response,  we  entered  the  dark  wood.  Through  it  was 
an  almost  unfrequented  bridle  path,  considered  some- 
what unsafe  by  day  but  particularly  so  at  night;  the 
gnarled  roots  of  trees  forming  a  raised  network  upon 
the  ground.  It  was  with  considerable  difficulty  we 
made  our  way.  Mrs.  Wilton  stumbled  many  times, 
would  have  fallen  but  for  my  support.  At  last  she 
loosed  my  arm  and  ran  forward,  signing  me  not  to 
follow  her.  In  another  moment  the  wood  resounded 
with  a  mid  and  piercing  cry.  She  had  seen  what  the 
rest  of  us  had  failed  to  see,  and  when  I  came  up  to  her 


A  DOCTOR'S  STORY.  63 

she  was  kneeling  beside  her  husband,  her  arms  clasped 
about  his  neck,  her  face  close  pressed  to  his.  One 
agonized  look  she  gave  me  as  I  bent  over  them :  * '  My 
dream ! ' '  she  said.    I  understood. 

There  was  an  ugly  wound  on  the  back  of  poor 
Charlie  Wilton's  head;  the  body  was  still  warm,  but 
the  heart  had  ceased  to  beat.  Though  Mrs.  Wilton  did 
not  speak  again,  she  never  completely  lost  her  senses, 
but  her  mind  seemed  stunned.  We  put  some  hurdles 
together  and  carried  him  back  thus  to  Croft  House. 

An  inquest  was  held,  every  particular  of  which  was 
minutely  reported  in  the  county  newspaper,  to  appear 
in  condensed  form  in  most  of  the  journals  of  the  day. 
But  no  friends  of  the  dead  man  ever  came  forward, 
nor  was  it  satisfactorily  proved  whether  his  death  had 
been  the  result  of  violence  or  of  an  accidental  fall  from 
his  horse  in  the  dangerous  pathway  through  the  wood. 

The  post-office  officials  at  D perfectly  remem- 
bered the  deceased  calling  for  letters  on  the  day  in 
question,  giving  the  name  of  Wilton;  but  there  were 
none  for  him.  In  the  bank  was  lodged  to  his  credit 
some  five  or  six  thousand  pounds. 

I  took  upon  myself  the  arrane-ements  for  the  funeral 
as  of  everything  else.  Mrs.  Wilton's  mind  had  not  suf- 
ficiently recovered  from  the  shock  it  had  received  on 
that  terrible  night  to  understand  or  care  for  what  went 
on  around  her.  Only  once— when  I  urged  writing  to 
her  friends— did  she  even  momentarily  rouse  herself 
to  answer  me.  "My  father  will  never  forgive  me," 
she  said.  "I  acted  in  defiance  of  his  commands.  No, 
I  cannot  write  to  him."  Then  she  added:  "He  has 
married  again,"  which  perhaps  in  part  explained. 

A  month  later  a  baby  was  born— a  boy  whom  she 
called  Charlie— and  when  she  spoke  the  name,  tears 
sprang  to  her  eyes  for  the  first  time.  It  was  not  until 
I  saw  those  tears  that  I  had  the  slightest  hope  of  her 
mind  rallying  from  the  shock;  but  then  I  knew  that 
the  living  child  would  save  her.  She  looked  upon  him 
as  having  been  sent  direct  from  heaven  to  solace  her 


64  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

for  her  loss.  She  regarded  him  as  an  emanation  from 
the  departed  spirit  of  her  husband.  There  was  cer- 
tainly something  uncommon  about  the  child.  He  was 
pretty,  but  not  engaging.  He  never  cried ;  but  it  may 
also  be  said,  lie  never  smiled.  He  did  not  suffer,  but 
there  was  about  him  none  of  the  joyousness  of  child- 
hood. It  seemed  as  though  the  thunder-cloud  that 
had  burst  over  the  mother's  head  had  left  its  shadow 
on  the  child. 

Between  two  and  three  years  after  Mr.  Wilton's 
death  a  change  seemed  likely  to  occur  in  my  own  pros- 
pects. A  rich  relation— a  physician  of  high  standing 
—wrote  urging  me  to  come  to  London  immediately, 
on  a  matter,  so  he  said,  of  the  greatest  importance  to 
myself.  There  was  nothing  to  prevent  my  complying 
with  his  request.  The  village  was  in  a  healthy  state; 
my  outside  practice  might  be  made  to  spare  me.  I 
wrote  stating  I  would  be  with  him  on  the  following 
day. 

I  went  to  Croft  House  to  say  good-bye.  It  was  sum- 
mer. Mrs.  Wilton  was  sitting  out  on  the  lawn  with 
Charlie  on  a  rug  close  at  her  feet.  She  made  room 
for  me  beside  her,  and  we  talked  together  for  a  short 
time  of  her  affairs  and  of  the  child.  It  was  not  until 
I  had  risen  to  go  that  I  broached  the  subject  of  my 
departure.    She  looked  surprised,  alarmed. 

"But,  Charlie,"  she  said;  "if  he  should  be  ill?" 

'  *  I  would  not  go  if  he  were  ill.  I  will  return  at  once 
if  he  should  need  me,"  I  answered  earnestly.  "But  is 
he  not  the  picture  of  health?  Why,  he  seems  exempt 
from  every  childish  trouble." 

I  told  her  my  relative's  address,  knowing  she  only 
cared  to  have  it  in  case  she  needed  me  for  her  boy; 
then  I  lifted  the  child  in  my  arms  and  kissed  him. 
"Good-bye,  little  man!"  I  said  cheerfully.  He  was  a 
splendid  little  fellow,  of  whom  his  mother  might  well 
be  proud ;  he  resembled  his  father,  too,  and  was  grow- 
ing more  like  him  every  day. 

I  was  about  to  set  the  child  down,  but  something— 


'A  DOCTOR'S  STORY.  65 

Bome  feeling  I  cannot  define— impelled  me  to  hold  him 
closer;  to  look  into  his  face — his  eyes — more  scrutini- 
zingly  than  I  liad  ever  done.  And  so  looking,  I  shud- 
dered at  the  thought  that  then  assailed  me.  Great 
powers !  Could  fate  be  so  cruel  ?  Had  heaven  no  pity 
for  this  poor  mother  who,  so  young,  had  already  surely 
borne  enough  of  sorrow  ?  I  put  the  boy  down  quickly 
and  turned  away. 

Perhaps— perhaps  after  all  I  may  have  been  mis- 
taken ! 

I  reached  London,  and  Dr.  B *s  residence  that 

evening,  and  my  worthy  relative  quickly  explained  the 
object  of  his  summons.  He  wished  me  to  undertake, 
with  his  supervision,  a  case  requiring  the  utmost  care 
and  consideration;  one  which  rendered  it  necessary 
that  a  medical  man  should  reside  for  a  time  beneath 
the  same  roof  as  his  patient,  and  be  with  him  night 
and  day. 

This  patient  was  Lord  Welbury,  a  self-made  man 
BO  far  as  his  immense  wealth  was  concerned;  but  he 
came  of  an  ancient  and  honourable  race. 

I  accepted  the  munificent  conditions  offered,  and 
within  a  couple  of  hours  of  my  arrival  in  town  was 
driven  to  Lord  Welbury 's  house  in  Belgravia,  and 
entered  upon  the  duties  of  my  post. 

For  some  days  and  nights  my  responsibilities 
absorbed  all  my  attention.  The  life  of  a  sick  man 
hung  on  a  thread,  my  medical  capacity  was  taxed  to 
its  utmost ;  I  knew  not,  nor  cared  I,  for  the  time  being, 
what  went  on  outside  that  chamber. 

The  crisis  passed,  my  patient  began  rapidly  to 
recover.  The  first  day  that  he  was  able  to  sit  up  in 
his  room  he  asked  me  a  startling  question.  He  said : 
"Doctor,  am  I  sane?" 

"Your  mind  has  never  been  affected,"  I  answered 
unhesitatingly.    "Your  lordship  is  as  sane  as  I  am." 

* '  Good.  Therefore  a  will  made  by  me  now  could  not 
be  invalid?" 

"Most   certainly   not   on   the   ground    of   incom- 
petency." 
a-5 


66  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

* '  Then  my  will  must  be  made  to-morrow  or  next  day 
at  latest.  This  illness  has  warned  me  to  delay  no 
longer.    My  niece 's  child  will  be  my  heir. ' ' 

His  words  set  me  musing  and  turning  over  in  my 
mind  how  this  could  be. 

"Your  lordship  is  childless,  then?"  The  remark 
slipped  from  me  almost  unawares ;  but  they  were  fate- 
ful words,  as  the  result  proved,  *'I  beg  your  pardon," 
I  added,  seeing  surprise  and  some  annoyance  written 
on  his  face. 

"Not  at  all,"  he  answered  courteously.  **I  supposed 
you  were  acquainted  with  my  family  affairs,  for  they 
are  no  secret.  I  have  a  son,  though  no  communica- 
tion has  passed  between  us  for  nearly  four  years.  He 
set  me  and  my  wishes  at  defiance  by  marrying 
beneath  him,  consequently  will  inherit  little  more 
than  an  empty  title.  I  mean  to  leave  my  fortune  to 
my  niece 's  child.  The  boy  was  committed  to  my  care 
when  his  parents  went  to  India,  two  years  ago.  He  is 
a  fine  little  fellow,  and  it  shows  how  close  in  attend- 
ance you  have  been  on  me  if  you  did  not  even  know 
he  was  in  the  house—" 

**Was  your  son's  name  Charles— that  of  the  girl 
he  married  Una?"  I  asked,  scarcely  heeding  his  last 
words.  My  heart  was  beating  faster  than  it  should, 
my  voice  in  my  earnestness  less  steady  than  it  ought 
to  be. 

"Yes.    But  why  these  questions?" 

I  knew  he  was  well  enough  now  to  hear  the  truth, 
therefore  I  answered :  ' '  Because  it  is  my  belief  your 
lordship 's  son  is  dead.  I  will  relate  to  you  a  sad  story ; 
when  I  have  finished  you  will  be  able  to  judge  whether 
or  not  you  are  concerned  in  it. ' '  Then  I  told,  as  briefly 
as  I  could,  the  Croft  House  tragedy ;  and  as  I  did  so, 
read  in  the  ever-increasing  interest  with  which  he 
listened  to  my  tale  that  my  suspicions  were  correct. 

That  the  man  I  had  to  deal  with  was  of  a  proud, 
egotistical,  unsympathetic  nature  I  was  well  aware; 
that  the  death  of  his  only  son  would  not  vitally  affect 


A  DOCTOR'S  STORY.  67 

him  I  had  rightly  guessed;  but  I  was  scarcely  pre- 
pared for  the  interest  he  displayed  on  learning  of  the 
existence  of  his  grandchild.  The  better  nature  of  the 
man  seemed  touched.  •  I  spoke  of  little  Charles's 
beauty,  his  likeness  to  his  father,  even  hinted  at  a 
resemblance  to  Lord  Welbury  himself.  With  the  fev- 
erish impatience  of  an  invalid  he  demanded  that  the 
boy  should  be  sent  for  at  once. 

"He  cannot  come  without  his  mother.  The  two 
lives  are  bound  together  as  one." 

"Then  write  to  the  mother  and  bid  her  bring  him," 
was  the  imperious  reply.  And  the  speaker  turned  his 
face  away  as  though  to  intimate  no  more  was  to  be 
said.    The  affair  was  settled. 

On  quitting  the  room  I  encountered  a  nurse  leading 
a  smiling,  rosy  little  urchin,  clad  in  velvet  and  rich 
lace. 

"Speak  prettily  to  the  kind  doctor,  Georgie,"  said 
the  nurse.  "This  is  the  little  heir,  sir,"  she  whis- 
pered to  me. 

Three  days  later  Mrs,  Wilton— I  must  still  call  her 
so— and  her  son  arrived,  I  met  them  at  the  station 
and  took  them  in  one  of  his  lordship's  carriages  to 
the  house.  The  boy,  exhausted  apparently  by  the 
journey,  was  asleep  when  he  entered  it;  he  was  still 
sleeping  when  his  mother  carried  him  across  the 
threshold  of  Lord  Welbury 's  door. 

His  lordship's  reception  of  her  was  not  ungracious. 
Could  he  fail  to  feel  touched  at  sight  of  this  gentle, 
beautiful  young  creature,  who  had  loved  his  son  so 
well!  But  it  was  evident  he  resented  the  fact  that 
his  grandson,  whom  he  had  specially  desired  to  wel- 
come, could  not  be  prevailed  upon  to  notice  him,  or 
enticed  to  leave  his  mother 's  arms. 

"Excuse  him.  He  is  so  tired,"  pleaded  the  young 
mother,  reading  the  disappointment  on  her  father-in- 
law's  face. 

"Well,  well.  Off  to  bed  with  him,  then.  Bring 
him  to  me  bright  and  smiling  in  the  morning." 


68  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

Bright  and  smiling!  Somehow  the  words  struck 
me — even  haunted  me— they  were  so  totally  inap- 
plicable to  Charlie.  I  tried  to  remember  if  I  had  ever 
seen  a  smile  upon  that  grave  baby-face,  but  tried  in 
vain. 

When  I  entered  Lord  Welbury's  room  next  day— 
my  presence  there  at  nights  was  now  dispensed  with— 
the  old  man,  in  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  was 
reclining  in  an  easy  chair.  In  front  of  him  stood  Mrs. 
Wilton,  with  Charlie  clinging  to  her  long  black  drap- 
eries. 

"Come  here,  Gray,"  exclaimed  his  lordship,  irri- 
tably. **I  cannot  get  my  grandson  to  notice  me.  What 
is  to  be  done?" 

"Charlie  is  shy.  He  has  been  used  to  no  one  but 
me,"  murmured  the  mother,  raising  her  eyes  with  an 
appealing  look  in  them  to  mine. 

"Madam,  I  fear  you  are  spoiling  him,"  said  Lord 
Welbury  sharply.  "The  other  child  took  to  me  at 
once,  but  this—" 

"Send  for  the  other,  sir,"  I  suggested,  and  pres- 
ently "the  little  heir,"  with  whom  I  had  previously 
made  acquaintance,  was  brought  in  by  his  nurse.  The 
latter  sat  down  in  a  far  corner  with  some  knitting. 
The  child— as  apparently  he  had  been  accustomed  to 
do— ran  to  the  old  man  and  scrambled  at  his  knee.  "I 
love  'ou,  I  love  'ou, ' '  he  cried. 

Lord  Welbury 's  face  was  radiant. 

"Now,  Charlie,  my  man,"  said  he,  as  the  other  child 
after  his  affectionate  greeting  scampered  off  to  play 
beside  his  nurse. 

Charlie  was  placed  on  his  grandfather's  knee. 

"Say  'I  love  you,*  "  whispered  Mrs.  Wilton,  as  she 
tried  to  clasp  her  own  child's  arms  about  Lord  Wel- 
bury's  neck. 

"Say  I  love  *ou,"  echoed  the  boy  mechanically; 
then  dropped  his  head  and  lay  quite  placidly  as 
though  he  slept. 

"Ha,  ha,  the  young  rascal!    He's  making  himself 


A  DOCTOR'S  STORY.  69 

at  home  at  last,"  observed  Lord  Welbury,  well 
pleased.  "And  now  that  I  come  to  see  him  more 
closely,  he's  not  unlike  what  his  father  was  at  the 
same  age,  only  quieter.  Do  you  know  he  almost 
strikes  me  as  being  a  little  dull.  Have  you  found  him 
so,  madam?" 

"I  have  been  too  sad  a  companion  for  him,  sir,  I 
know— I  feel  it  now,"  sighed  the  poor  mother,  her  eyes 
wandering  from  her  own  boy  to  follow  the  antics  of 
the  other,  who  astride  a  stick,  was  careering  merrily 
about  the  room. 

"That  can  be  soon  remedied,"  said  Lord  Welbury, 
putting  Charlie  off  his  knee ;  "let  the  two  youngsters 
romp  together.  I  warrant  they'll  make  friends  if  let 
alone. ' ' 

And  in  order  to  try  the  experiment,  we  three  sat 
apart  and  kept  up  some  desultory  talk.  This  lasted 
but  a  short  time,  however.  It  was  broken  in  upon  by 
a  startled  cry  from  the  younger  boy,  Georgie,  who, 
apparently  terror  stricken,  rushed  across  the  room. 

"Naughty  boy,  naughty  boy !  Send  him  away.  He's 
making  faces  at  me,"  cried  the  spoilt  child  in  an  out- 
burst of  passion,  pointing  with  outstretched  finger  at 
his  little  companion. 

The  nurse  dropped  her  knitting,  and  rose  instantly. 
**I  have  seen  it  from  the  first,"  she  said,  calmly  con- 
fronting us.    *  *  The  child  is  half  an  idiot,  my  lord, ' ' 

All  eyes  were  turned  at  poor  Charlie,  who  stood 
among  some  broken  toys,  his  features  distorted  into 
the  ghastly  semblance  of  a  smile, 

Mrs.  Wilton,  running  to  her  boy,  shielded  him  with 
her  arms.  "My  darling,  my  darling!  Has  God  no 
pity?"  she  cried,  and  bore  him  from  the  room.  She 
had  prayed  day  and  night— this  unhappy  mother— to 
see  either  a  smile  on  her  baby's  lips  or  a  tear  in  his 
eye,  and  hitherto  her  prayer  had  been  denied.  It 
was  granted  now.  The  poor  dulled  senses  of  the  child, 
roused  into  something  like  activity  by  the  antics  of  his 
little  lively  playfellow,  had  caused  the  lips  to  smile. 
But  what  a  smile  I 


70  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

Lord  Welbury  turned  pale.  A  look  of  disgust,  not 
unmixed  with  anger,  settled  on  his  face. 

"There  is  no  doubt  the  boy  is  imbecile,"  he  said,  as 
I  was  about  to  follow  Mrs.  Wilton  from  the  room. 
*'Dr.  Gray,  were  you  aware  of  this  when  you  allowed 
him  to  be  brought  here  ? ' ' 

*  *  I  was  not  aware  of  it, "  I  replied  readily.  For  the 
sad  foreboding  that  first  assailed  me  on  the  lawn  at 
Croft  House  had  received  no  confirmation  hitherto. 
"But  even  if  the  case  is  as  we  fear,"  I  added  earn- 
estly, "it  may  be  curable." 

"Excuse  me,  doctor,"  he  interrupted.  "No  man 
who  has  seen  that  child  as  we  have  seen  him  can  have 
the  slightest  doubt  but  that  he  is  an  idiot  for  life." 

"On  the  contrary,  my  lord,  we  must  regard  the 
matter  from  another  point.  Remember  the  shadow 
that  rested  on  his  mother  before  his  birth.  Where 
there  is  no  hereditary  taint—" 

"What  then?  On  the  mere  chance  of  the  child 
being  curable,  do  you  suppose  I  am  going  to  leave  my 
money  to  him?  No!"  he  cried  excitedly.  "My  own 
life  is  too  precarious  for  me  to  delay  longer  the  set- 
tling of  my  affairs.  My  niece 's  child  is  still  my  heir. 
I  regard  the  other  as  non  est.  For  heaven's  sake  don't 
let  me  have  my  feelings  harrowed  by  the  sight  of  that 
poor  idiot  any  more.  The  mother  shall  have  a  hand- 
some annuity.    I  pity  her. ' ' 

And  that  day  Lord  Welbury  made  his  will,  leaving 
his  immense  fortune  as  he  had  said. 

Once  more  I  returned  to  my  country  practice ;  Mrs. 
Wilton  and  Charlie  to  Croft  House. 

Never  was  grief  grander  in  its  simplicity,  or  more 
nobly  borne  than  that  of  Mrs.  Wilton.  She  still 
prayed— prayed  with  the  faith  which  we  are  told  will 
move  mountains.  Her  eyes,  when  not  raised  to  heaven, 
were  bent  on  her  child,  ever  seeking  for  the  dawning 
of  that  intelligence  which  she  believed  must  come  in 
answer  to  her  prayers.  She  tried  to  teach  him  his 
childish  lessons;  she  read,  she  talked  to  him;  even 


A  DOCTOR'S  STORY.  71 

chanted  in  a  low,  sad  voice  the  nursery  rhymes  that 
happy  mothers  sing. 

At  last,  one  day,  exercising  over  herself  a  supreme 
control,  she  told  her  son  the  story  of  his  father's 
death,  told  it  in  simple,  child-like  language,  but  with  a 
pathos  that  might  have  moved  a  heart  of  stone. 

The  boy  was  standing  at  her  knee,  she  holding  his 
unresponsive  hand.  But,  as  she  proceeded  with  her 
narration,  he  pressed  gradually  closer  to  her  side. 
With  a  thrill  of  rapture  she  looked  at  the  drooped  eye- 
lids, hoping,  praying  to  see  a  tear  glisten  on  the  dark 
curled  lashes.  Trembling,  she  reached  the  climax  of 
her  sad  tale,  and  bending  over  him : 

"Charlie,"  she  whispered,  "Charlie,  he  was  dead! 
you  understand?" 

Alas,  she  knew  then,  even  ere  she  had  done  speaking 
that  the  boy  was  incapable  of  understanding  her.  His 
eyes  were  closed.    He  slept ! 

And  he  seemed  for  ever  thus.  Whether  the  beauti- 
ful but  expressionless  eyes  were  open  or  closed  his 
mental  faculties  were  in  that  dulled  dormant  state,  it 
might  be  said  they  slept. 

"He  is  like  that  little  statue  of  Jesus  now,"  she 
once  said  to  me,  pointing  to  a  marble  figure  of  Christ, 
' '  but  some  day  God  will  awaken  his  soul.  Ah,  doctor, 
shall  I  live  to  see  that  day  ? ' ' 

I  scarcely  thought  she  could,  but  did  not  tell  her  so. 

From  the  day  on  which  she  related  the  story  of  her 
husband's  death,  she  herself  drooped  visibly. 

But  grief  kills  very  slowly.  Five  years  passed  by. 
Lord  Welbury  was  dead.  His  wealth— with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  annuity  to  his  son's  widow— was  left  to 
his  niece's  child;  his  title  now  by  right  became  his 
grandson's. 

The  boy  grew  fast ;  he  was  eight  years  old,  but  his 
mind  still  slumbered.  He  knew  the  sound  of  his 
mother's  voice,  would  come  to  the  side  of  her  couch 
when  called ;  would  lie  for  hours  folded  in  her  arms, 
whispering  back  her  loving  words,  repeating  her  gentle 


72  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

admonitions  like  an  echo.  The  words  apparently  con- 
veyed no  meaning,  but  they  touched  some  hidden 
chord. 

Weaker  and  weaker  grew  Mrs.  Wilton. 

On  one  of  my  daily  visits  the  sick  nurse,  who  was  in 
constant  attendance  now,  whispered  to  me  that  the 
end  was  near.  I  was  startled,  shocked,  to  perceive 
how  near! 

"Doctor,  dear  friend,"  she  gasped  very  faintly,  as 
I  pressed  her  poor  transparent  hand;  but  her  whole 
attention  was  riveted  on  her  son;  she  was  gazing  at 
him  with  eyes  out  of  which  the  light  of  earth  was  fad- 
ing fast.  It  was  evident  she  desired  to  say  something, 
but  it  was  some  time  before  the  words  would  come. 
At  last,  gathering  strength,  she  said  in  a  low,  penetrat- 
ing voice  that  scarcely  faltered :  "I  am  going  to  leave 
you,  Charlie.  Here  I  could  not  help  you,  but  when  in 
heaven  I  see  our  dear  Lord  face  to  face— when  on  my 
knees  before  the  great  white  throne—" 

For  an  instant  an  expression  of  rapture  irradiated 
her  features ;  the  next,  with  a  slight  sigh  she  sank  back 
upon  the  pillow. 

I  touched  Charlie  on  the  shoulder.  He  dropped 
upon  his  knees  and,  unprompted,  joined  his  trembling 
hands  in  prayer.  His  gaze  was  directed  upward.  His 
countenance  assumed  a  look  of  intensity  I  had  never 
seen  on  it  before.  Quite  suddenly  he  rose,  and  fling- 
ing himself  sobbing  across  the  bed.  "Oh,  mother, 
mother !  Do  not  leave  me  all  alone, ' '  he  cried. 

"See!  Your  son  is  saved!"  I  whispered,  bending 
over  Mrs.  Wilton.    But  I  was  speaking  to  the  dead. 

And  yet,  even  as  I  looked  upon  the  still  white  face, 
the  lips  seemed  parting  into  a  smile  of  the  most  holy, 
calm,  ineffable  content.  Could  it  be  as  she  herself  had 
said?  Was  she  already  kneeling  before  the  great 
white  throne— had  God  listened  to  her  prayer  at  last  ? 

A  few  more  words  and  this  "o'er  true  tale"  is 
ended. 

From  the  moment  of  his  mother's  death,  the  mists 
that  had  obscured  poor  Charlie's  mind  dispersed. 


A  DOCTOR'S  STORY.  73 

I  took  him  to  live  with  me,  and  watched  his  young 
intelligence  grow  day  by  day  to  healthy  vigour.  Not 
even  a  shadowy  semblance  of  a  cloud  rests  now  upon 
his  mind.  He  has  succeeded  to  his  grandfather's 
wealth  as  well  as  to  the  title,  for  "the  niece's  child"  is 
dead. 

The  present  Lord  Welbury  ranks  amongst  Eng- 
land's noblest  sons— he  is  one  of  the  greatest  philan- 
thropists of  the  day. 

E.  M.  Davy. 


VI. 

JOHN  BARTINE'S  WATCH  :  THE 
DOCTOR'S  STORY. 


'T^  HE  exact  time  1    Good  heavens !  my  friend,  wliy 

*•  I  do  you  insist?  One  would  think— but  what 
^^a)|  does  it  matter;  it  is  easily  bed-time — isn't  that 
near  enough  ?  But,  here,  if  you  must  set  your  watch, 
take  mine  and  see  for  yourself. ' ' 

With  that,  he  detached  his  watch— a  tremendously 
heavy,  old-fashioned  one — from  the  chain  and  handed 
it  to  me,  tlien  turned  away  and,  walking  across  the 
room  to  a  shelf  of  books,  began  an  examination  of 
their  backs.  His  agitation  and  evident  distress  sur- 
prised me ;  they  appeared  altogether  reasonless.  Hav- 
ing set  my  watch  by  his,  I  stepped  over  to  where  he 
stood  and  said,  "Thank  you." 

As  he  took  his  watch  and  re-attached  it  to  the 
guard,  I  observed  that  his  hands  were  unsteady.  A 
slight  pallor  had  come  into  his  face.  With  a  tact,  upon 
which  I  greatly  prided  myself,  I  sauntered  carelessly 
to  the  sideboard  and  took  some  brandy  and  water, 
then,  begging  his  pardon  for  my  thoughtlessness, 
asked  him  to  have  some  and  went  back  to  my  seat  by 
the  fire,  leaving  him  to  help  himself,  as  was  our  cus- 
tom. He  did  so,  and  presently  joined  me  at  the  hearth, 
as  tranquil  as  if  nothing  unusual  had  happened. 

This  odd  little  incident  occurred  in  my  apartment, 
where  John  Bartine  was  passing  an  evening.  We  had 
dined  together  at  the  club,  had  come  home  in  a  hack 
and,  in  short,  everything  had  been  done  in  the  most 
prosaic  way;  and  why  John  Bartine  should  break  in 
upon  the  natural  and  established  order  of  things  to 

(74) 


JOHN  BARTINE'S  WATCH.  75 

make  himself  spectacular  with  a  display  of  emotion^ 
apparently  for  his  own  entertainment,  I  could  nowise 
understand. 

The  more  I  thought  of  it,  while  his  brilliant  conver- 
sational gifts  were  commending  themselves  to  my  inat- 
tention, the  more  curious  I  grew  and,  of  course,  had  no 
difficulty  in  persuading  myself  that  my  curiosity  was 
friendly  solicitude.  That  is  the  disguise  that  curiosity 
commonly  assumes  to  evade  resentment.  So  I  ruined 
one  of  the  finest  sentences  of  his  monologue  by  cutting 
it  short  without  ceremony. 

**John  Bartine,"  I  said,  "you  must  try  to  forgive 
me,  if  I  am  wrong;  but  with  the  light  that  I  have  at 
present  I  cannot  concede  your  right  to  go  all  to  pieces 
when  asked  the  time  o'  night.  I  cannot  admit  that  it 
is  proper  to  experience  a  mysterious  reluctance  to 
look  your  own  watch  in  the  face,  and  to  cherish  in  my 
presence,  without  explanation,  painful  emotions  which 
are  denied  to  me  and  which  are  none  of  my  business." 

To  this  ridiculous  speech,  Bartine  made  no  immed- 
iate reply,  but  sat  looking  gravely  into  the  fire.  Fear- 
ing that  I  had  offended,  I  was  about  to  apologize  and 
beg  him  to  think  no  more  about  the  matter,  when, 
looking  me  calmly  in  the  eyes,  he  said : 

"My  dear  fellow,  the  levity  of  your  manner  does 
not  at  all  disguise  the  hidden  impudence  of  your 
demand;  but  happily  I  had  already  decided  to  tell 
you  what  you  wish  to  know,  and  no  manifestation  of 
your  unworthiness  to  hear  it  shall  alter  my  decision. 
Be  good  enough  to  persuade  me  to  have  a  fresh  cigar 
and  you  shall  hear  all  that  I  can  tell  you  about  the 
matter. 

' '  This  watch, ' '  he  said,  * '  had  been  in  my  family  for 
three  generations  before  it  fell  to  me.  Its  original 
owner,  for  whom  it  was  made,  was  my  great-grand- 
father, Bramwell  Olcott  Bartine,  a  wealthy  planter  of 
Colonial  "Virginia  and  as  stanch  a  Tory  as  every  lay 
awake  nights  contriving  new  kinds  of  maledictions  for 
the  head  of  Mr.  Washington,  and  new  methods  of  aid- 


76  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

ing  and  abetting  good  King  George.  One  day  this 
worthy  gentleman  had  the  deep  misfortune  to  per- 
form for  his  cause  a  service  of  capital  importance 
which  was  not  recognized  by  those  who  suffered  its 
disadvantages  as  legitimate.  It  does  not  matter  what 
it  was;  but  among  its  minor  consequences  was  my 
excellent  ancestor's  arrest  one  night  in  his  own  house 
by  a  party  of  Mr.  Washington's  rebels.  He  was  per- 
mitted to  say  farewell  to  his  weeping  family  and  was 
then  marched  away  into  the  darkness,  which  swallowed 
him  up  forever. 

"Not  the  slenderest  clew  to  his  fate  was  ever  found. 
After  the  war  the  most  diligent  inquiry  and  the  offer 
of  large  rewards  failed  to  turn  up  any  of  his  captors 
or  any  fact  concerning  him.  He  had  disappeared,  and 
that  was  all. ' ' 

Something  in  John  Bartine's  manner  that  was  not 
in  his  words— I  hardly  knew  what  it  was,  or  how  it 
manifested  itself —prompted  me  to  ask : 

"What  is  your  view  of  the  matter,  Bartine— of  the 
justice  of  it  ? " 

"My  view  of  it,"  he  flamed  out,  bringing  his 
clenched  hand  down  upon  the  table  as  if  he  had  been 
in  a  public-house  dicing  with  blackguards— "my  view 
of  it  is  that  it  was  a  characteristically  dastardly 
assassination  by  that  d— d  traitor,  Washington,  and 
his  ragamuffin  rebels ! ' ' 

For  some  minutes  nothing  was  said;  Bartine  was 
recovering  his  temper,  and  I  waited.    Then  I  said : 

"Was  that  all?" 

**  No— there  was  something  else.  A  few  weeks  after 
my  great-grandfather's  arrest  his  watch  was  found 
lying  on  the  porch  at  the  front  door  of  his  dwelling. 
It  was  wrapped  in  a  sheet  of  letter-paper  bearing  the 
name  of  Elizabeth  Bartine,  his  only  daughter,  my 
grandmother.    I  am  wearing  that  watch, ' ' 

Bartine  paused.  His  usually  restless  black  eyes 
were  staring  fixedly  into  the  grate,  a  point  of  red  light 
in  each,  reflected  from  the  glowing  coals.  He  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  my  existence. 


JOHN  BARTINE'S  WATCH.  77 

A  sudden  thresliing  of  the  branches  of  a  tree  outside 
one  of  the  windows,  and  almost  at  the  same  instant  a 
rattle  of  rain  against  the  glass,  recalled  him  to  a  sense 
of  his  surroundings.  A  storm  had  risen,  heralded  by 
a  single  gust  of  wind,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  steady 
splash  of  the  water  on  the  pavement  was  distinctly 
audible.  I  hardly  know  why  I  relate  that  incident; 
it  seemed  somehow  to  have  a  certain  significance  and 
relevancy  which  I  am  enabled  now  to  discern.  It  at 
least  added  an  element  of  seriousness,  almost  solemn- 
ity.   Bartine  resumed: 

**I  have  a  singular  feeling  towards  this  watch— a 
kind  of  affection  for  it;  I  like  to  have  it  about  me; 
though  partly  from  its  weight,  and  partly  for  a  reason 
that  I  shall  now  explain,  I  seldom  carry  it.  The  rea- 
son is  this :  Every  evening  when  I  have  it  with  me  I 
,  feel  an  unaccountable  desire  to  open  it  and  consult  it, 
even  if  I  can  think  of  no  reason  for  AAdshing  to  know 
I  the  time. '  But  if  I  yield  to  it,  the  moment  my  eyes 
rest  upon  the  dial  I  am  filled  with  a  mysterious  appre- 
hension— a  sense  of  imminent  calamity.  And  this  is 
the  more  unsupportable  the  nearer  it  is  to  eleven 
o'clock— by  this  watch,  no  matter  what  the  actual  hour 
may  be.  After  the  hands  have  registered  eleven  the 
desire  to  look  is  gone ;  I  am  entirely  indifferent.  But 
then  I  can  consult  the  thing  as  often  as  I  like,  with  no 
more  emotion  than  you  feel  in  looking  at  your  own. 

"Naturally,  I  have  trained  myself  not  to  look  at 
that  watch  in  the  evening  before  eleven ;  nothing  could 
induce  me.  Your  insistence  this  evening  upset  me  a 
trifle.  I  felt  very  much  as  I  suppose  an  opium-eater 
might  feel  if  his  yearning  for  his  special  and  particu- 
lar kind  of  hell  were  re-enforced  by  opportunity  and 
advice. 

"Now,  that  is  my  story,  and  I  have  told  it  in  the 
interest  of  your  trumpery  science;  but  if  on  any 
evening  hereafter  you  observe  me  wearing  this 
damnable  watch,  and  you  have  the  thoughtfulness  to 
ask  me  the  hour,  I  shall  beg  leave  to  put  you  to  the 
inconvience  of  being  knocked  down. '  * 


78  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

His  humour  did  not  amuse  me.  I  could  see  that  in 
relating  his  hallucination  he  was  again  somewhat  dis- 
turbed. His  concluding  smile  was  positively  ghastly, 
and  his  eyes  had  resumed  something  more  than  their 
old  restlessness ;  they  shifted  hither  and  thither  about 
the  room  with  apparent  aimlessness,  and  I  fancied  had 
taken  on  a  wild  expression,  such  as  is  sometimes 
observed  in  eases  of  dementia.  Perhaps  this  was  my 
own  imagination ;  but  at  any  rate  I  was  now  persuaded 
that  my  friend  was  afflicted  with  a  most  singular 
monomania. 

Without,  I  trust,  any  abatement  of  my  affectionate 
solicitude  for  him  as  a  friend,  I  began  to  regard  him 
as  a  patient  rich  in  possibilities  of  profitable  study. 
Why  not?  Had  he  not  described  his  delusion  in  the 
interest  of  science?  Ah,  poor  fellow,  he  v/as  doing 
more  for  science  than  he  knew ;  not  only  his  story  but 
himself  was  in  evidence.  I  should  cure  him  if  I  could, 
of  course,  but  first  I  should  make  a  little  experiment 
in  psychology — nay,  the  experiment  itself  might  be  a 
step  in  his  restoration. 

"That  is  very  frank  and  friendly  of  you,  Bartine," 
I  said  cordially,  "and  I'm  rather  proud  of  your  con- 
fidence. It  is  all  very  odd,  certainly.  Do  you  mind 
showing  me  the  watch?" 

He  detached  it  from  his  waistcoat,  chain  and  all,  and 
passed  it  to  me  without  a  word.  The  case  was  of  gold, 
very  thick  and  strong,  and  curiously  engraved.  After 
examining  the  dial  and  observing  that  it  was  nearly 
twelve  o'clock,  I  opened  it  at  the  back  and  was  inter- 
ested to  observe  an  inner  case  of  ivory,  upon  which 
was  painted  a  miniature  portrait  in  that  exquisite  and 
delicate  manner  which  was  in  vogue  during  the  eigh- 
teenth century. 

"Why,  bless  my  soul!"  I  exclaimed,  experiencing 
the  keenest  artistic  delight— "how  under  the  sun  did 
you  get  that  done  ?  I  thought  miniature  painting  on 
ivory  was  a  lost  art. ' ' 

"That,"  he  replied,  gravely  smiling,  "is  not  I;  it  is 


JOHN  BARTINE'S  WATCH.  79 

my  excellent  great-grandfather,  the  late  Bramwell 
Olcott  Bartine,  Esquire,  of  Virginia.  He  was  younger 
then  than  later— about  my  age,  in  fact.  It  is  said  to 
resemble  me ;  do  you  think  so  ? " 

** Resemble  you?  I  should  say  so!  Barring  the 
costume,  which  I  supposed  you  to  have  assumed  out  of 
compliment  to  the  art— or  for  vraisemblance,  so  to 
say— and  the  no  mustache,  that  face  is  yours  in  every 
feature,  line  and  expression." 

No  more  was  said  at  that  time.  Bartine  took  a  book 
from  the  table  and  began  reading. 

I  heard  outside  the  incessant  plash  of  the  rain  in 
the  street.  There  was  occasional  hurried  footfalls  on 
the  sidewalks ;  and  once  a  slower,  heavier  tread  seemed 
to  cease  at  my  door— a  policeman,  I  thought,  seeking 
shelter  in  the  doorway.  The  boughs  of  the  trees 
tapped  significantly  on  the  window-panes,  as  if  asking 
for  admittance.  I  remember  it  all  through  these 
years  and  years  of  a  wiser,  graver  life. 

Seeing  myself  unobserved,  I  took  the  old-fashioned 
watch  key  from  the  chain  and  quickly  turned  back  the 
hands  of  the  watch  a  full  hour ;  then,  closing  the  case, 
I  handed  Bartine  his  property,  and  saw  him  replace  it. 

* '  I  think  you  said, ' '  I  began,  with  assumed  careless- 
ness, * '  that  after  eleven  the  sight  of  the  dial  no  longer 
affects  you.  As  it  is  now  nearly  twelve"— looking  at 
my  own  timepiece— ''perhaps,  if  you  don't  resent  my 
pursuit  of  proof,  you  will  look  at  it  now." 

He  smiled  good-humoredly,  pulled  out  the  watch 
again,  opened  it,  and  instantly  sprang  to  his  feet  with 
a  cry  that  Heaven  has  not  had  the  mercy  to  permit  me 
to  forget !  His  eyes,  their  blackness  strikingly  intensi- 
fied by  the  absolute  pallor  of  his  face,  were  fixed  upon 
the  watch,  which  he  clutched  in  both  hands. 

For  some  time  he  remained  in  that  attitude  without 
Tittering  another  sound ;  then,  in  a  voice  that  I  should 
not  have  recognized  as  his,  he  said : 

"D— n  you!  it  is  two  minutes  to  eleven." 

I  was  not  unprepared  for  some  such  outbreak,  and 
without  rising  replied,  calmly  enough : 


80  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

"I  beg  your  pardon ;  I  must  have  misread  your 
watcli  in  setting  my  own  by  it. '  * 

He  shut  the  case  with  a  sharp  snap  and  put  the 
watch  in  his  pocket.  He  looked  at  me  and  made  an 
attempt  to  smile;  but  his  lower  lip  quivered  and  he 
seemed  unable  to  close  his  mouth.  His  hands,  also, 
were  shaking  and  he  thrust  them  eleno.hed  into  his 
coat  pockets. 

The  courageous  spirit  was  manifestly  endeavoring 
to  subdue  the  coward  body.  The  effort  was  too  great. 
He  began  to  sway  from  side  to  side,  as  from  vertigo ; 
and  before  I  could  spring  from  my  chair  to  support 
him  his  knees  gave  way  and  he  pitched  awkwardly  for- 
ward and  fell  upon  his  face— dead! 

The  post-mortem  examination  disclosed  nothing; 
every  organ  was  normal  and  sound.  But  w'hen  the 
body  had  been  prepared  for  burial  a  faint,  dark  circle, 
as  if  made  by  contusion,  was  seen  to  have  developed 
about  the  neck;  at  least,  I  was  so  assured  by  several 
persons  who  said  they  saw  it ;  but  of  my  own  knowl- 
edge I  cannot  say  if  that  was  true. 

Nor  can  I  affirm  my  knowledge  of  the  limitations  of 
the  principle  of  heredity.  I  do  not  know  that  in  the 
spiritual,  as  in  the  temporal,  world  natural  laws  have 
no  post-facto  validity.  Surely,  if  I  were  to  guess  at 
the  fate  of  Bramwell  Olcott  Bartine,  I  should  guess 
that  he  was  hanged  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
and  that  he  had  been  allowed  several  hours  in  which 
to  prepare  for  the  change. 

As  to  John  Bartine,  my  friend,  my  patient  for  five 
minutes,  and — Heaven  forgive  me! — my  victim  for 
eternity,  there  is  no  more  to  say.  He  is  buried,  and 
his  watch  with  him ;  I  saw  to  that.  May  God  rest  his 
soul  in  Paradise  and  the  soul  of  his  unfortunate  Vir- 
ginian ancestor,  if,  indeed,  they  are  two  souls. 

Ambrose  Bierce. 


VII. 

TWO  WILLS. 


Y\  R.  BROWN  had  returned  home  late  from  a 
'^  -,  visit  to  one  of  his  patients.  It  was  a  serious 
^^  ease— doubly  so  for  Brown— for  not  only  had 
his  notoriously  sure  diagnosis  failed  him  in  this  case, 
but  the  patient  was  one  of  a  family  with  which  he 
had  been  on  an  intimate  footing  for  years,  and  conse- 
quently his  personal  interest  was  awakened.  The 
doctor  saw  no  hope  whatever  for  the  sick  woman. 
Since  early  morning  he  had  hourly  expected  her 
death.  Weary  and  dispirited,  after  a  light  and  hasty 
supper,  he  sat  down  at  his  writing-table,  and  once 
more  passed  in  review  the  whole  course  of  his  patient's 
illness.    Every  circumstance  was  recalled, 

"Unaccountable!  perfectly  unaccountable!"  he 
murmured  over  and  over  again,  and,  with  each  repeti- 
tion, he  shook  his  grey  head. 

** Doctor!"  Brown  started  up  in  alarm.  He  had 
not  dreamed  that  anyone  beside  himself  was  in  the 
room.  As  he  looked  up,  he  saw  a  lady  standing  by 
the  door,  dressed  in  a  peculiar  nightrobe  with  only  a 
light  shawl  thrown  over  it. 

*'My  God!  What  is  that?" 

It  was  indeed  the  subject  of  his  thoughts.  Amazed 
beyond  expression,  Brown  sprang  from  his  arm-chair 
and  hastened  toward  the  intruder.  "My  dear  Madam! 
Mrs.  Morley,  in  heaven's  name,  why  are  you  here?" 

"Never  mind,  doctor.  Sit  down  and  write  what  I 
tell  you." 

Brown  mechanically  obeyed  the  command.  There 
was  something  in  the  look  and  bearing  of  his  visitor 
which    forbade    contradiction.      Strangely    thrilled, 

^  (81) 


82  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

Brown  took  up  his  pen  and  wrote  at  her  dictation  the 
following  words :  "I  hereby  direct  that,  in  case  of  my 
death,  my  body  be  opened,  and  the  cause  of  my  illness 
and  final  demise  be  officially  and  authoritatively  stated 
by  a  competent  physician.  I  am  convinced  that  I  am 
poisoned,  and  that  by  my  own  husband,  and  only 
through  such  a  statement  as  the  aforesaid  will  it  be 
put  out  of  his  power  to  get  possession  of  the  property 
coming  to  my  only  child,  his  step-daughter.  My  will 
relating  to  this  property  is  in  the  hands  of  my  lawyer, 
Mr.  Batt,  in  London.  Mr.  Batt  is,  as  I  have  unfortu- 
nately only  lately  discovered,  a  man  open  to  bribery, 
and  my  husband  counts  upon  this  characteristic  for 
the  attainment  of  his  object:  that  is  to  say,  he  hopes 
to  induce  this  lawyer,  by  pure  falsification,  to  make 
the  will  read  in  his  favor.  I  believe  he  has  already 
succeeded  in  doing  this,  for,  when,  yesterday,  I  desired 
to  see  a  lawyer  of  this  town,  in  order  to  have  him  take 
down  my  last  wishes,  my  husband  put  every  obstacle 
in  the  way  of  his  coming.  I  have  put  a  sealed  copy  of 
my  will  in  the  double  bottom  of  the  little  box  which 
stands  always  upon  the  table  at  my  bedside.  The 
ostensible  contents  of  the  box  are  my  daughter's  first 
cap  and  a  lock  of  my  father's  hair." 

Dr.  Brown  had  driven  his  pen  as  if  under  the  domi- 
nation of  a  higher  power.  He  was  not  conscious  of 
having  once  lifted  it  from  the  paper  to  the  inkstand, 
and  yet  there  stood  the  written  characters,  black  and 
clear,  upon  the  white  paper,  and  reminded  him  that  he 
was  not  alone ;  furthermore,  that  the  head  and  heart 
whose  wish  and  request  these  characters  had  recorded, 
belonged  to  an  existence  which  held  his  own  being, 
thought,  and  will  in  its  power. 

He  made  an  heroic  effort  to  regain  the  mastery  of 
himself,  and  with  a  powerful  shake,  as  if  to  free  him- 
self from  the  grasp  of  this  strange  will,  he  aros6. 
''Madam,  I-" 

* '  Yes,  but,  doctor,  the  master  sent  me  to  tell  you  to 
come  right  away.    Mrs.  Morley  has  been  lying  for  two 


TWO  WILLS.  83 

hours  like  dead,  and  the  master  thinks  it  must  be 
nearly  over  with  her." 

Browm  staggered  back  in  amazement,  and  stared  so 
vacantly  at  the  waiting  coachman  that  the  man  was 
struck  dumb. 

**Jan?  Where  did  you  come  from?  Mrs.  Morley 
is  not  yet— ' ' 

''Dead?  No,  doctor,  not  yet,  but  the  master  says 
she  can 't  last  much  longer. ' ' 

"Very  well.  You  see  to  the  horses,  and  I'll  come 
right  away." 

Dr.  Brown  put  his  hands  to  his  head.  He  had  need 
to  convince  himself  by  some  such  means  of  his  own 
mortal  existence.  Then  he  seized  his  hat  and  coat  and 
hurried  after  the  coachman. 

Drawing  his  coat  tightly  about  him,  he  leaned  back 
in  the  corner  of  the  carriage  and  racked  his  brain  over 
the  strange  occurrence,  but  to  no  purpose.  The  doctor 
was  a  hard-headed,  practical  man,  and  if  any  one  had 
related  to  him  the  events  of  the  past  day,  he  would 
have  laughed  him  to  scorn ;  but,  earnestly  as  he  tried 
to  do  so  now,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  conjure  up 
a  smile.  The  carriage  stopped  and  Mr.  Morley  was  at 
the  door  to  receive  him. 

*'I  am  glad  you  have  come,  doctor.  I  was  afraid 
you  would  be  too  late.  As  the  clock  struck  twelve, 
there  was  absolutely  no  breath  nor  pulse,  and  not 
until  half-an-hour  ago  did  she  seem  to  come  back  a 
little  to  life.  She  has  just  asked  for  you." 

These  words  were  spoken  outside  the  sick-room  door. 
The  doctor  laid  aside  his  coat  and  went  in,  followed 
by  Mr.  Morley.  The  physician  felt  something  like 
horror  at  being  in  the  near  presence  of  this  man,  who 
since  half-an-hour  ago  had  figured  in  his  mind  as  the 
murderer  of  his  wife ;  and  here  in  the  sick-room  while 
looking  upon  the  dying  woman,  in  whose  features  he 
again  saw  plainly  his  recent  guest,  even  here,  did  he 
feel  again  that  compelling  *orce  which  had  put  the 
pen  in  his  hand  at  home. 


84  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

The  sick  woman  seemed  to  have  been  anxiously 
awaiting  his  coming,  for  her  great,  earnest  eyes  fas- 
tened themselves  upon  him,  as  he  entered  the  room, 
and  as  he  bent  over  her,  he  heard  distinctly  the  low 
whispered  words:  ** Doctor,  my  child!"  and  in  the 
same  low  whisper  Dr.  Brown  replied:  "I  will  see  that 
your  will  is  executed, ' ' 

Then  he  raised  his  head  and  encountered  a  look 
from  those  eyes  which  spoke  a  world  of  gratitude ;  and 
this  was  the  last  conscious  look  which  lighted  them, 
for  as  Mr.  Morley  now  softly  approached,  she  looked 
wanderingly  at  him,  and  then  her  eyelids  closed,  and 
her  muscles  relaxed,  and  with  a  gentle  sigh  her  heart 
ceased  to  beat. 

"All  is  over,"  said  the  doctor,  as  he  stepped  back 
to  give  place  to  the  mourning  husband,  who  threw  him- 
eelf  down  beside  his  wife. 

When  he  arose  and  turned  toward  the  doctor,  a  tear 
glittered  on  his  lashes.  His  voice  was  hoarse  and 
tremulous  when  he  thanked  the  physician  for  all  ihe 
pains  which  he  had  taken  during  the  long  illness  of 
his  wife,  concluding  with,  * '  I  shall  never  forget  it ! " 

Dr.  Brown  only  shook  his  head.  He  was  thinking  of 
the  dead  woman's  will,  and  answered  evasively:  "I 
could  not  have  helped  your  wife  much,  since  I  never 
discovered  the  real  cause  of  her  illness." 

**No  self-reproaches,  doctor!  You  did  what  you 
could,  and  whether  this  disease  can  be  exactly  diag- 
nosed seems  to  me,  from  what  I  know  of  it,  altogether 
doubtful." 

"Every  disease,"  replied  the  doctor,  "must  finally 
disclose  its  cause  to  the  patient  and  thorough  investi- 
gator ;  but  in  this  case  there  were  so  many  accompany- 
ing phenomena  that  it  was  quite  impossible  to  dis- 
cover the  exact  cause  of  the  predominant  disorder,  at 
least  in  the  living  body." 

The  doctor,  as  he  said  this,  looked  sharply  at  his 
companion,  over  whose  countenance  a  slight  cloud 
seemed  to  pass ;  yet  there  was  scarcely  any  discernible 


TWO  WILLS.  65 

change  in  his  voice  as  he  replied:  "No,  no,  doctor,  we 
won't  do  that !  The  beloved  body  was  sufficiently  tor- 
mented in  life ;  in  death  at  least  it  shall  be  at  rest!" 

"Yes,  but  it  was  the  wish  of  the  dead;  and  isn't 
there  any  direction  as  to  that  in  the  will  ? ' ' 

"No!— yet  perhaps— I  don't  know.  Anyway  the 
will  is  to  be  read  tomorrow,  and  should  any  such  direc- 
tion be  found  there— well,  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to 
carry  it  out.  I  will  send  immediately  an  announce- 
ment of  the  death  to  our  attorney,  Mr.  Batt  of  London. 
You  will  be  present  at  the  opening  of  the  will,  will 
you  not?" 

"Most  certainly!" 

The  doctor  during  this  conversation  had  again 
approached  the  bed  of  death.  He  carefully  scruti- 
nized the  surroundings  and,  as  if  in  an  absent-minded 
manner,  picked  up  a  little  box  from  the  table  which 
stood  beside  the  bed  and  carelessly  pushed  back  the 
cover.  At  sight  of  the  contents  he  could  hardly 
restrain  an  exclamation;  for  there,  exactly  as  had 
been  described  to  him,  were  a  baby's  cap,  yellow  with 
time,  and  a  lock  of  hair,  tied  with  a  ribbon. 

"Probably  some  of  your  wife's  keepsakes?"  he 
remarked,  turning  inquiringly  to  Morley. 

"Yes,  and  as  such  they  must  be  given  into  the 
hands  of  her  daughter." 

"Will  you  allow  me  the  pleasure  of  sending  them 
to  her  by  my  sister  who  is  going  to  Switzerland 
tomorrow  ? '  * 

"I  suppose  it  would  be  more  proper  that  she  should 
receive  them  at  my  hands ;  and  yet,  as  I  shall  have  to. 
remain  here  for  some  time  yet,  and  a  journey  home 
in  her  delicate  state  of  health  would  be  hard  for  the 
child,  I  shall  be  very  much  obliged  to  you  if  you  will 
send  them  to  her.  Give  her  my  blessing  with  them, 
and  tell  her  that  from  this  time  forth  I  shall  be  more 
a  father  to  her  than  ever. ' ' 

Dr.  Brown  thrust  the  little  box  deep  into  his  breast- 
pocket, and  took  his  leave  with  the  assurance  that  he 
would  faithfully  execute  Mr.  Morley 's  commission. 


86  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

Once  at  home  under  the  light  of  the  lamp,  he  was 
not  long  in  searching  for  the  further  contents  of  the 
box,  and  he  was  filled  with  both  horror  and  astonish- 
ment as  his  search  brought  to  light,  from  beneath  a 
cunningly-contrived  double  floor,  the  will  as  it  had 
been  described  to  him— a  clear,  correct  copy.  After 
this  discovery,  the  doctor  awaited  with  feverish 
anxiety  the  hour  for  the  announced  opening  of  the 
will. 

At  last  it  arrived,  and  Brown  had  to  acknowledge 
to  himself  that  its  contents  agreed  exactly  with  the 
copy  in  his  hands  until  it  came  to  the  names  of  the 
heirs.  Here  appeared  clearly  and  plainly,  "my 
daughter,  Mara  Dix ; ' '  and  there,  just  as  plainly,  *  *  my 
husband,  John  Morley."  No  directions  with  regard  to 
an  inquest  or  autopsy  appeared  therein. 

"I  demand  proof  of  the  genuineness  of  that  will!" 
rang  loud  and  clear  through  the  room.  No  one  could 
imagine  from  whom  the  words  proceeded.  The  will 
had  been  drawn  up  and  carefully  preserved  by  a 
prominent  attorney  in  London,  and  the  family 
involved  was  one  of  the  first  in  the  country ;  and  now 
came  this  demand,  which,  as  everybody  knew,  was  an 
unmitigated  insult.  Who  had  brought  it  forward? 
The  chairman  looked  all  about  the  room.  There  he 
stood— Dr.  Brown!  He  had  again,  quite  uncon- 
sciously, come  under  the  spell  of  that  mysterious 
power,  and  in  obedience  to  its  behest  had  called  out 
those  words ;  now  that  they  were  spoken,  he  would  not 
recall  them.  Standing  upright,  the  doctor  repeated: 
"I  demand  an  examination  of  the  will!"  As  he  spoke, 
he  had  the  comfortable  feeling  of  having  kept  a 
promise. 

"By  what  authority?"  asked  the  attorney, 

"As  the  guardian  of  the  deceased's  daughter." 

"Have  you  anything  to  offer  in  support  of  this 
request?" 

"Yes,  a  copy  of  the  original  will." 

"Will?" 


TWO  WILLS.  87 

"And  this  lias  reference  to  an  entirely  different 
party." 

"Allow  me  to  look  at  the  document." 

Dr.  Bro^^^^  handed  over  the  copy.  A  committee 
retired  with  it  to  another  room.  On  their  return 
the  chairman  announced  that  in  accordance  with  Dr. 
Brown's  request,  a  preliminary  examination  of  the 
will  having  been  made,  the  judge  had  decided  to  enter 
a  complaint  against  Attorney  Batt  of  London  for  hav- 
ing falsified  the  will,  and  at  the  same  time  to  place 
the  property  of  the  heiress-at-law  under  legal  pro- 
tection. 

"Dr.  Brown,  have  you  anything  further  to  say  in 
the  matter?" 

"I  beg  you  will  order  an  autopsy." 

' '  On  what  grounds  ? ' ' 

"It  was  the  wish  of  the  deceased." 

*  *  Is  that  your  only  reason  ? ' ' 

"No,  but  because  I  have  a  strong  suspicion  that  the 
deceased  came  to  her  death  through  slow  and  pro- 
tracted poisoning." 

All  present  were  filled  with  horror. 

Again  the  court  withdrew,  and  again  the  decision 
was  a  fulfilment  of  the  doctor's  request;  and  when 
the  verdict  at  the  ensuing  inquest  was  brought  in,  it 
was  expressed  in  one  word :  Poison ! 


VII. 
A  DOCTOR  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL. 

A  GENERAL  PRACTITIONER. 


DRUMTOCHTY  was  accustomed  to  break  every 
1  law  of  health,  except  wholesome  food  and 
^^1  fresh  air,  and  yet  had  reduced  the  Psalmist's 
farthest  limit  to  an  average  life-rate.  Our  men  made 
no  difference  in  their  clothes  for  summer  or  winter, 
Drumsheugh  and  one  or  two  of  the  larger  farmers 
condescending  to  a  topcoat  on  Sabbath,  as  a  penalty 
of  their  position,  and  without  regard  to  temperature. 
They  wore  their  blacks  at  a  funeral,  refusing  to  cover 
them  with  anything,  out  of  respect  to  the  deceased, 
and  standing  longest  in  the  kirkyard  when  the  north 
wind  was  blowing  across  a  hundred  miles  of  snow.  If 
the  rain  was  pouring  at  the  Junction,  then  Drumtochty 
stood  two  minutes  longer  through  sheer  native  dour- 
ness  till  each  man  had  a  cascade  from  the  tail  of  his 
coat,  and  hazarded  the  suggestion,  halfway  to  Kil- 
drummie,  that  it  had  been  "a  bit  scrowie;"  a 
"scrowie"  being  as  far  short  of  a  "shoor"  as  a 
"shoor"  fell  below  'Sveet." 

This  sustained  defiance  of  the  elements  provoked 
occasional  judgments  in  the  shape  of  a  "hoast" 
(cough),  and  the  head  of  the  house  was  then  exhorted 
by  his  women  folk  to  "change  his  feet"  if  he  hap- 
pened to  walk  through  a  burn  on  his  way  home,  and 
was  pestered  generally  with  sanitary  precautions.  It 
is  right  to  add  that  the  gudeman  treated  such  advice 
with  contempt,  regarding  it  as  suitable  for  the  effemi- 
nacy of  towns,  but  not  seriously  intended  for  Drum- 
tochty.   Sandy  Stewart  ** napped"  stones  on  the  road 

(88) 


TOR  ( 


Psalmist  V, 


larsrer  farmers 


A   Spoonful  Evert  Hour 


lil  of  his 

to  Kil- 

A'ie;"    a 

/"  as  a 


way  hi 

1 1 


'A  DOCTOR  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL.  89 

in  his  shirt  sleeves,  wet  or  fair,  summer  and  winter, 
till  he  was  persuaded  to  retire  from  active  duty  at 
eighty-five,  and  he  spent  ten  years  more  in  regretting 
his  hastiness  and  criticising  his  successor.  The 
ordinary  course  of  life,  with  fine  air  and  contented 
minds,  was  to  do  a  full  share  of  work  till  seventy,  and 
then  to  look  after  "orra"  (odd)  jobs  well  into  the 
eighties,  and  to  "slip  awa"  within  sight  of  ninety. 
Persons  above  ninety  were  understood  to  be  acquit- 
ting themselves  with  credit,  and  assumed  airs  of 
authority,  brushing  aside  the  opinions  of  seventy  as 
immature,  and  confirming  their  conclusions  with  illus- 
trations drawn  from  the  end  of  last  century. 

.When  Hillocks'  brother  so  far  forgot  himself  as  to 
**slip  awa"  at  sixty,  that  worthy  man  was  scandalized, 
and  offered  laboured  explanations  at  the  "beerial." 

**It's  an  awfu'  business  ony  wy  ye  look  at  it,  an'  a 
sair  trial  tae  us  a'.  A'  never  heard  tell  o'  sic  a  thing 
in  oor  family  afore,  an'  it's  no  easy  accoontin'  for't. 

**The  gudewife  was  sayin'  he  wes  never  the  same 
sin'  a  weet  nicht  he  lost  himsel  on  the  muir  and  slept 
below  a  bush;  but  that's  neither  here  nor  there.  A'm 
thinkin'  he  sappit  his  constitution  thae  twa  years  he 
wes  grieve  (steward)  aboot  England.  That  wes  thirty 
years  syne,  but  ye 're  never  the  same  aifter  thae  for- 
eign climates." 

Drumtochty  listened  patiently  to  Hillocks'  apolo- 
gia, but  was  not  satisfied. 

"It's  clean  havers  aboot  the  muir.  Losh  keep's 
(Lord,  keep  us),  we've  a'  sleepit  oot  and  never  been 
a  hair  the  waur. 

**A'  admit  that  England  micht  hae  dune  the  job; 
it's  no  cannie  stravagin'  (strolling)  yon  wy  frae  place 
tae  place,  but  Drums  never  complained  tae  me  as  if 
he  hed  been  nippit  in  the  Sooth," 

The  parish  had,  in  fact,  lost  confidence  in  Drums 
after  his  wayivard  experiment  with  a  potato-digging 
machine,  which  turned  out  a  lamentable  failure,  and 
his  premature  departure  confirmed  our  vague  impres- 
sion of  his  character. 


90  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

"He's  awa  noo,"  Drumsheugli  summed  up,  after 
opinion  had  time  to  form;  **an'  there  were  waur  fouk 
than  Drums,  but  there's  nae  doot  he  wes  a  wee 
fliehty." 

"When  illness  had  the  audacity  to  attack  a  Drum- 
tochty  man,  it  was  described  as  a  "whup,"  and  was 
treated  by  the  men  with  a  fine  negligence.  Hillocks 
was  sitting  in  the  post  office  one  afternoon  when  I 
looked  in  for  my  letters,  and  the  right  side  of  his  face 
was  blazing  red.  His  subject  of  discourse  was  the 
prospects  of  the  turnip  "breer,"  but  he  casually  ex- 
plained that  he  was  waiting  for  medical  advice. 

"The  gudewife  is  keepin'  up  a  ding-dong  frae 
mornin'  till  nicht  aboot  ma  face,  and  a'm  fair  deaved 
(deafened),  so  a'm  watchin'  for  MacLure  tae  get  a 
bottle  as  he  comes  wast  (west) ;  yen's  him  noo." 

The  doctor  made  his  diagnosis  from  horseback  on 
sight,  and  stated  the  result  with  that  admirable  clears 
ness  which  endeared  him  to  Drumtochty. 

"Confoond  ye.  Hillocks,  what  are  ye  ploiterin* 
aboot  here  for  in  the  weet  wi'  a  face  like  a  boiled 
beetT  Div  ye  no  ken  that  ye've  a  titch  o'  the  rose 
(erysipelas),  and  ocht  tae  be  in  the  hoose?  Gae  hame 
wi'  ye  afore  a'  leave  the  bit,  and  send  a  haflin  (half- 
grown;  a  child)  for  some  medicine.  Ye  donnerd 
idiot,  are  ye  ettlin  (intending)  tae  follow  Drums  afore 
yir  time?"  And  the  medical  attendant  of  Drum- 
tochty  continued  his  invective  till  Hillocks  started, 
and  still  pursued  his  retreating  figure  with  medical 
directions  of  a  simple  and  practical  character. 

"A'm  watchin',  an'  peety  ye  if  ye  pit  aff  time. 
Keep  yir  bed  the  mornin',  and  dinna  show  yir  face 
in  the  fields  till  a'  see  ye.  A '11  gie  ye  a  cry  on  Monday 
— sic  an  auld  fule— but  there's  no  ane  o'  them  tae 
mind  anither  in  the  hale  pairish." 

Hillocks'  wife  informed  the  kirkyaird  that  the  doc- 
tor "gied  the  gudeman  an  awfu'  clearin',"  and  that 
Hillocks  "wes  keepin'  the  hoose,"  which  meant  that 
the  patient  had  tea  breakfast,  and  at  that  time  was 


A  DOCTOR  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL.  91 

wandering  about  the  farm  buildings  in  an  easy  un- 
dress with  his  head  in  a  plaid. 

It  was  impossible  for  a  doctor  to  earn  even  the  most 
modest  competence  from  a  people  of  such  scandalous 
health,  and  so  MacLure  had  annexed  neighbouring 
parishes.     His   house— little  more  than  a  cottage — 
stood  on  the  roadside  among  the  pines  towards  the 
head  of  our  Glen,  and  from  this  base  of  operations  he 
dominated  the  wild  glen  that  broke  the  "wall  of  the 
Grampians  above  Drumtochty— where  the  snowdrifts 
were  twelve  feet  deep  in  winter,  and  the  only  way  of 
passage  at  times  was  the  channel  of  the  river— and 
the  moorland  district  westwards  till  he  came  to  the 
Dunleith  sphere  of  influence,  where  there  were  four 
doctors  and  a  hydropathic.    Drumtochty  in  its  length, 
which  was  eight  miles,  and  its  breadth,  which  was 
four,  lay  in  his  hand ;  besides  a  glen  behind,  unknown 
to  the  world,  which  in  the  night  time  he  visited  at  the 
risk  of  life,  for  the  way  thereto  was  across  the  big 
moor  with  its  peat  holes  and  treacherous  bogs.    And 
he  held  the  land  eastwards  towards  Muirtown  so  far 
as  Geordie.    The  Drumtochty   post   travelled   every 
day,  and  could  carry  word  that  the  doctor  was  wanted. 
He  did  his  best  for  the  need  of  every  man,  woman, 
and  child  in  this  wild,  straggling  district,  year  in, 
year  out,  in  the  snow  and  in  the  heat,  in  the  dark  and 
in  'the  light,  without  rest,  and  without  holiday  for 
forty  years. 

One  horse  could  not  do  the  work  of  this  man,  but 
we  liked  best  to  see  him  on  his  old  white  mare,  who 
died  the  week  after  her  master,  and  the  passing  of  the 
two  did  our  hearts  good.  It  was  not  that  he  rode 
beautifully,  for  he  broke  every  canon  of  art,  flying 
with  his  arms,  stooping  till  he  seemed  to  be  speaking 
into  Jess's  ears,  and  rising  in  the  saddle  beyond  all 
necessity.  But  he  could  ride  faster,  stay  longer  in 
the  saddle,  and  had  a  firmer  grip  with  his  knees,  than 
any  one  I  ever  met,  and  it  was  all  for  mercy's  sake. 
When  the  reapers  in  harvest  time  saw  a  figure  whirl- 


92  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

ing  past  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  or  the  family  at  the  foot 
of  Glen  Urtaeh,  gathered  round  the  fire  on  a  winter's 
night,  heard  the  rat4;le  of  a  horse's  hoofs  on  the  road, 
or  the  shepherds,  out  after  the  sheep,  traced  a  black 
speck  moving  across  the  snow  to  the  upper  glen,  they 
knew  it  was  the  doctor,  and,  without  being  conscious 
of  it,  wished  him  God  speed. 

Before  and  behind  his  saddle  were  strapped  the 
instruments  and  medicines  the  doctor  might  want,  for 
he  never  knew  what  was  before  him.  There  were  no 
specialists  in  Drumtochty,  so  this  man  had  to  do 
everything  as  best  he  could,  and  as  quickly.  He  was 
chest  doctor  and  doctor  for  every  other  organ  as  well ; 
he  was  accoucheur  and  surgeon;  he  was  oculist  and 
aurist ;  he  was  dentist  and  chloroformist,  besides  being 
chemist  and  druggist.  It  was  often  told  how  he  was 
far  up  Glen  Urtach  when  the  feeders  of  the  threshing 
mill  caught  young  Burnbrae,  and  how  he  only  stopped 
to  change  horses  at  his  house,  and  galloped  all  the 
way  to  Burnbrae,  and  flung  himself  off  his  horse  and 
amputated  the  arm,  and  saved  the  lad 's  life. 

"You  wud  hae  thocht  that  every  meenut  was  an 
hour, ' '  said  Jamie  Soutar,  who  had  been  at  the  thresh- 
ing, "an*  a'll  never  forget  the  puir  lad  lying  as  white 
as  deith  on  the  floor  o'  the  loft,  wi'  his  head  on  a 
sheaf,  an*  Burnbrae  haudin'  the  bandage  ticht  an* 
prayin*  a*  the  while,  and  the  mither  greetin'  in  the 
corner. 

"  'Will  he  never  come?'  she  cries,  *an'  a'  heard 
the  soond  o*  the  horse's  feet  on  the  road  a  mile  awa 
in  the  frosty  air. 

"  'The  Lord  be  praised!*  said  Burnbrae,  and  a' 
slippit  doon  the  ladder  as  the  doctor  came  skelpin' 
intae  the  close,  the  foam  fleein'  frae  his  hoi^e's  mooth. 

"  *Whar  is  he?'  wes  a'  that  passed  his  lips,  an'  in 
five  meenuts  He  hed  him  on  the  feedin'  board,  and 
wes  at  his  wark— sic  wark,  neeburs— but  he  did  it 
weel.  An*  ae  thing  a*  thocht  rael  thoctfu'  o'  him: 
he  first  sent  aff  the  laddie  *s  mither  tae  get  a  bed  ready. 


A  DOCTOR'OFTHE'OLD  SCHOOL.  93 

**  *Noo  that's  feenished,  and  his  constitution  '11  dae 
the  rest,*  and  he  carried  the  lad  doon  the  ladder  in  his 
airms  like  a  bairn,  and  laid  him  in  his  bed,  and  waits 
aside  him  till  he  wes  sleepin',  and  then  says  he :  'Burn- 
hrae,  yir  a  gey  lad  never  tae  say  "Collie,  will  ye 
lick?"  for  a'  hevna  tasted  meat  for  saxteen  hoors.' 

*'It  was  michty  tae  see  him  come  intae  the  yaird 
that  day,  neeburs ;  the  verra  look  o '  him  wes  victory, ' ' 

Jamie's  cynicism  slipped  off  in  the  enthusiasm  of 
this  reminiscence,  and  he  expressed  the  feeling  of 
Drumtochty.  No  one  sent  for  MacLure  save  in  great 
straits,  and  the  sight  of  him  put  courage  in  sinking 
hearts.  But  this  was  not  by  the  grace  of  his  appear- 
ance, or  the  advantage  of  a  good  bedside  manner,  A 
tall,  gaunt,  loosely  made  man,  without  an  ounce  of 
superfluous  flesh  on  his  body,  his  face  burned  a  dark 
brick  colour  by  constant  exposure  to  the  weather,  red 
hair  and  beard  turning  grey,  honest  blue  eyes  that 
looked  you  ever  in  the  face,  huge  hands  with  wrist 
bones  like  the  shank  of  a  ham,  and  a  voice  that  hurled 
his  salutations  across  two  fields,  he  suggested  the  moor 
rather  than  the  drawing-room.  But  what  a  clever 
hand  it  was  in  an  operation,  as  delicate  as  a  woman's; 
and  what  a  kindly  voice  it  was  in  the  humble  room 
where  the  shepherd's  wife  was  weeping  by  her  man's 
bedside.  He  was  "ill  pitten  thegither"  to  begin  with, 
but  many  of  his  physical  defects  were  the  penalties  of 
his  work,  and  endeared  him  to  the  Glen.  That  ugly 
scar  that  cut  into  his  right  eyebrow  and  gave  him  such 
a  sinister  expression,  was  got  one  night  Jess  slipped 
on  the  ice  and  laid  him  insensible  eight  miles  from 
home.  His  limp  marked  the  big  snowstorm  in  the  fif- 
ties, when  his  horse  missed  the  road  in  Glen  Urtach, 
and  they  rolled  together  in  a  drift.  MacLure  escaped 
with  a  broken  leg  and  the  fracture  of  three  ribs,  but  he 
never  walked  like  other  men  again.  He  could  not 
swing  himself  into  the  saddle  without  making  two  at- 
tempts and  holding  Jess's  mane.  Neither  can  you 
"warstle"  through  the  peat  bogs  and  snow  drifts  for 


94  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

forty  winters  without  a  touch  of  rheumatism.  But 
they  were  honorable  sears,  and  for  such  risks  of  life 
men  get  the  Victoria  Cross  in  other  fields.  MacLure 
got  nothing  but  the  secret  affection  of  the  Glen,  which 
knew  that  none  had  ever  done  one-tenth  as  much  for 
it  as  this  ungainly,  twisted,  battered  figure,  and  I 
have  seen  a  Drumtochty  face  soften  at  the  sight  of 
MacLure  limping  to  his  horse. 

Mr,  Hopps  earned  the  ill-A\dll  of  the  Glen  forever 
by  criticising  the  doctor's  dress,  but  indeed  it  would 
have  filled  any  townsman  with  amazement.  Black  he 
wore  once  a  year,  on  Sacrament  Sunday,  and,  if  pos- 
sible, at  a  funeral ;  topcoat  or  water-proof  never.  His 
jacket  and  waistcoat  were  rough  homespun  of  Glen 
Urtach  wool,  which  threw  off  the  wet  like  a  duck's 
back,  and  below  he  was  clad  in  shepherd's  tartan 
trousers,  which  disappeared  into  unpolished  riding 
boots.  His  shirt  was  grey  flannel,  and  he  was  uncer- 
tain about  a  collar,  but  certain  as  to  a  tie,  which  he 
never  had,  his  beard  doing  instead,  and  his  hat  was 
soft  felt  of  four  colors  and  seven  different  shapes. 
His  point  of  distinction  in  dress  was  the  trousers,  and 
they  were  the  subject  of  unending  speculation. 

"Some  threep  (declare)  that  he's  worn  thae  eeden- 
tical  pair  the  last  twenty  year,  an'  a'  mind  masel  (my- 
self) his  gettin'  a  tear  ahint,  when  he  was  crossin'  oor 
palin',  and  the  mend's  still  veesible. 

"Ithers  declare  'at  he's  got  a  wab  o'  claith,  and  hes 
a  new  pair  made  in  ]\Iuirtown  aince  in  the  twa  year 
maybe,  and  keeps  them  in  the  garden  till  the  new  look 
wears  aff. 

"For  ma  ain  pairt,"  Soutar  used  to  declare,  "a* 
canna  mak  up  my  mind,  but  there's  ae  thing  sure,  the 
Glen  wud  not  like  tae  see  him  withoot  them :  it  wud 
be  a  shock  tae  confidence.  There's  no  muckle  o'  the 
check  left,  bur  ye  can  aye  tell  it,  and  when  ye  see  thae 
breeks  comin'  in  ye  ken  that  if  human  pooer  can  save 
yir  bairn's  life  it  'ill  be  dune." 

The  confidence  of  the  Glen— and  tributary  states— 


A  DOCTOR  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL.  95 

was  unbounded,  and  rested  partly  on  long  experience 
of  the  doctor's  resources,  and  partly  on  his  hereditary 
connection. 

"His  father  was  here  afore  him,"  Mrs.  Macfadyen 
nsed  to  explain ;  "atween  them  they've  hed  the  county- 
side  for  weel  on  tae  a  century ;  if  MacLure  disna  un- 
derstand oor  constitution,  wha  dis,  a'  wud  like  tae 
ask?" 

For  Drumtochty  had  its  own  constitution  and  a 
epecial  throat  disease,  as  became  a  parish  which  was 
quite  self-contained  between  the  woods  and  the  hills, 
and  not  dependent  on  the  lowlands  either  for  its  dis- 
eases or  its  doctors. 

"He's  a  skilly  man.  Doctor  MacLure,"  continued 
my  friend  Mrs.  Macfadyen,  whose  judgment  on  ser- 
mons or  anything  else  was  seldom  at  fault;  "an'  a 
kindhearted,  though  o'  coorse  he  hes  his  faults  like 
us  a',  an'  he  disna  tribble  the  Kirk  often. 

"He  aye  can  tell  what's  wrang  wi'  a  body,  an* 
maistly  he  can  put  ye  rieht,  an'  there's  nae  new-fan- 
gled wys  wi'  him:  a  blister  for  the  ootside  an'  Epsom 
salts  for  the  inside  dis  his  wark,  an'  they  say  there's 
no  an  herb  on  the  hills  he  disna  ken. 

"If  we're  tae  dee,  we're  tae  dee;  an'  if  we're  tae 
live,  we're  tae  live,"  concluded  Elspeth,  with  sound 
Calvinistic  logic ;  "but  a '11  say  this  for  the  doctor,  that 
whether  yir  tae  live  or  dee,  he  can  aye  keep  up  a  shairp 
meisture  on  the  skin. 

"But  he's  no  verra  ceevil  gin  ye  bring  him  when 
there's  naethin'  wrang,"  and  Mrs.  Macfadyen 's  face 
reflected  another  of  Mr.  Hopps'  misadventures  of 
which  Hillocks  held  the  copyright. 

"Hopps*  laddie  ate  grosarts  (gooseberries)  till  they 
hed  to  sit  up  a'  nicht  wi'  him,  and  naethin'  wud  do 
but  they  maun  hae  the  doctor,  an'  he  writes  *  imme- 
diately' on  a  slip  o'  paper. 

"Weel,  MacLure  had  been  awa  a*  nicht  wi*  a  shep- 
herd's wife  Dunleith  wy,  and  he  comes  here  withoot 
drawin'  bridle,  mud  up  tae  the  een. 


96  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

**  'Wliat's  a  dae  here.  Hillocks?'  he  cries;  'it's  no 
an  accident,  is't?'  and  when  he  got  aff  his  horse  he 
cud  hardly  stand  wi '  stiffness  and  tire. 

**  'It's  nane  o'  us,  doctor;  it's  Hopps'  laddie;  he's 
been  eatin*  ower  mony  berries.' 

*'If  he  didna  turn  on  me  like  a  tiger. 

**  *Div  ye  mean  tae  say—* 

**  'Weesht,  weesht,'  an'  I  tried  tae  quiet  him,  for 
Hopps  wes  comin'  oot. 

*'  'Well,  doctor,'  begins  he,  as  brisk  as  a  magpie, 
'you're  here  at  last;  there's  no  hurry  with  you  Scotch- 
men. My  boy  has  been  sick  all  night,  and  I  've  never 
had  one  wank  of  sleep.  You  might  have  come  a  little 
quicker,  that's  all  I've  got  to  say.' 

*'  'We've  mair  tae  dae  in  Drumtochty  than  attend 
tae  every  bairn  that  hes  a  sair  stomach,'  and  a'  saw 
MacLure  was  roosed. 

"  'I'm  astonished  to  hear  you  speak.  Our  doctor  at 
home  always  says  to  Mrs.  'Opps,  "Look  on  me  as  a 
family  friend,  Mrs.  'Opps,  and  send  for  me  though  it 
be  only  a  headache."  * 

"  'He'd  be  mair  sparin'  o'  his  offers  if  he  hed  four 
an*  twenty  mile  tae  look  aifter.  There's  naething 
wrang  wi'  yir  laddie  but  greed.  Gie  him  a  gude  dose 
o'  castor  oil  and  stop  his  meat  for  a  day,  an'  he  'ill  be 
a*  richt  the  morn.' 

"  'He'll  not  take  castor  oil,  doctor.  We  have  given 
up  those  barbarous  medicines.' 

"  'Whatna  kind  o*  medicines  hae  ye  noo  in  the 
Sooth?' 

*'  'Well,  you  see,  Dr.  MacLure,  we're  homoeopath- 
ists,  and  I've  my  little  chest  here,'  and  oot  Hopps 
comes  wi'  his  boxy. 

"  'Let's  see  't,'  an'  MacLure  sits  doon  and  taks 
oot  the  bit  bottles,  and  he  reads  the  names  wi '  a  lauch 
every  time. 

"  'Belladonna ;  did  ye  ever  hear  the  like  ?  Aconite ; 
it  CO  wes  a*.  Nux  Vomica.  What  next?  Weel,  ma 
mannie,'  he  gays  tae  Hopps,  'it's  a  fine  ploy,  and  ye 


A  DOCTOR  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL.  97 

'ill  better  gang  on  wi'  the  Nux  till  it's  dune,  and  gle 
him  ony  ither  o'  the  sweeties  he  fancies. 

*'  *Noo,  Hillocks,  a'  maun  be  aff  tae  see  Drums- 
heugh's  grieve  (steward),  for  he's  doon  wi'  the  fever, 
an'  it's  tae  be  a  teuch  fecht  (hard  fight).  A'  hinna 
time  tae  wait  for  dinner;  gie  me  some  cheese  an'  cake 
in  ma  haund,  and  Jess  'ill  tak  a  pail  o'  meal  an' 
water. 

**  'Fee;  a'm  no  wantin'  yir  fees,  man;  wi'  a'  that 
boxy  ye  dinna  need  a  doctor ;  na,  na,  gie  yir  siller  tae 
some  puir  body,  Maister  Hopps,'  an'  he  was  doon  the 
road  as  hard  as  he  cud  lick." 

His  fees  were  pretty  much  what  the  folk  chose  to 
give  him,  and  he  collected  them  once  a  year  at  Kil- 
drummie  fair. 

"Weel,  doctor,  what  am  a'  awin'  ye  for  the  wife 
end  bairn  ?  Ye  'ill  need  three  notes  for  that  nicht  ye 
stayed  in  the  hoose  an'  a'  the  veesits." 

"Havers,"  MacLure  would  answer,  ''prices  are 
low,  a'm  hearing;  gie's  thirty  shillings." 

"No,  a '11  no,  or  the  wife  'ill  tak  ma  ears  off,"  and 
it  was  settled  for  two  pounds. 

Lord  Kilspindie  gave  him  a  free  house  and  fields, 
and  one  way  or  other,  Drumsheugh  told  me,  the  doe- 
tor  might  get  in  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
a  year,  out  of  which  he  had  to  pay  his  old  housekeep- 
er's wages  and  a  boy's,  and  keep  two  horses,  besides 
the  cost  of  instruments  and  books,  which  he  bought 
through  a  friend  in  Edinburgh  with  much  judgment. 

There  was  only  one  man  ^ who  ever  complained  of 
the  doctor's  charges,  and  that  was  the  new  farmer  of 
Milton,  who  was  so  |  good  •  that  .  he  was  above  both 
churohes,  and  held  a  meeting  in^his  barn.  ■  (It  was 
Milton  the  Glen  supposed  at  first  to  be  a  Mormon,  but 
I  can't  go  into  that  now. )'^ -He  offered  MacLure  a 
pound  less  than  he  asked,  and  two  tracts,  whereupon 
MacLure  expressed  his  opinion  of  Milton,  both  from 
a  theological  and  social  standpoint,  with  such  vigour 
and  frankness  that  an  attentive  audience  of  Drum- 
tochty  men  could  hardly  contain  themselves. 

2—7 


98  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

Jamie  Soutar  was  selling  his  pig  at  the  time,  and 
missed  the  meeting,  but  he  hastened  to  condole  with 
Milton,  who  was  complaining  everywhere  of  the  doc- 
tor's language. 

"Ye  did  rieht  tae  resist  him;  it  'ill  maybe  roose 
the  Glen  tae  mak  a  stand ;  he  fair  bauds  them  in  bond- 
age. 

"Thirty  shillings  for  twal  veesits,  and  him  no  mair 
then  seeven  mile  awa,  an'  a'm  telt  there  werena  mair 
than  four  at  nicht. 

"Ye  'ill  hae  the  sympathy  o'  the  Glen,  for  a'  body 
kens  yir  as  free  wi'  yir  siller  as  yir  tracts. 

"Wes't  'Beware  o'  gude  warks'  ye  offered  him? 
Man,  ye  chose  it  weel,  for  he's  been  colleckin'  sae 
mony  thae  forty  years,  a  'm  feared  for  him. 

"A've  often  thocht  oor  doctor's  little  better  than 
the  Gude  Samaritan,  an'  the  Pharisees  didna  think 
muckle  o'  his  chance  aither  in  this  warld  or  that  which 
is  tae  come." 

Ian  Maclaeen. 


VIII 

THE  VARIOUS  TEMPERS  OF 
GRANDMOTHER  GREGG. 


'lAT  HEN  the  doctor  drove  by  the  Gregg  farm  about 
JtZ-i  dusk,  and  saw  old  Deacon  Gregg  perched 
iS^J  cross-legged  upon  his  own  gate-post,  he  knew 
that  something  was  wrong  within,  and  he  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  to  drive  up  and  speak  to  the  old 
man. 

It  was  common  talk  in  the  neighborhood  that  when 
Grandmother  Gregg  made  things  too  warm  for  him 
in-doors,  the  good  man,  her  spouse,  was  wont  to  stroll 
out  to  the  front  gate  and  to  take  this  exalted  seat. 

Indeed,  it  was  said  by  a  certain  Mrs.  Frequent,  a 
neighbor  of  prying  proclivities  and  ungentle  speech, 
that  the  deacon 's  wife  sent  him  there  as  a  punishment 
for  misdemeanors.  Furthermore,  this  same  Mrs.  Fre- 
quent did  even  go  so  far  as  to  watch  for  the  deacon, 
and  when  she  would  see  him  laboriously  rise  and  re- 
signedly poise  himself  upon  the  narrow  area,  she 
would  remark: 

"Well,  I  see  Grandma  Gregg  has  got  the  old  man 
punished  again.    Wonder  what  he 's  been  up  to  now  ? ' ' 

Her  constant  repetition  of  the  unkind  charge  finally 
gained  for  it  such  credence  that  the  diminutive  figure 
upon  the  gate-post  became  an  object  of  mingled  sym- 
pathy and  mirth  in  the  popular  regard. 

The  old  doctor  was  the  friend  of  a  lifetime,  and  he 
was  sincerely  attached  to  the  deacon,  and  when  he 
turned  his  horse's  head  toward  the  gate  this  evening, 
he  felt  his  heart  go  out  in  sympathy  to  the  old  man  in 
durance  vile  upon  his  lonely  perch. 

(99) 


100  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

But  he  had  barely  started  to  the  gate  when  he  heard 
a  voice  which  he  recognized  as  the  deacon's,  where- 
upon he  would  have  hurried  away  had  not  his  horse 
committed  him  to  his  first  impulse  by  unequivocally 
facing  the  gate. 

*'I  know  three's  a  crowd,"  he  called  out  cheerily 
as  he  presently  drew  rein,  "but  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  stay; 
I  jest—  Why,  where 's  grandma?"  he  added  abrupt- 
ly, seeing  the  old  man  alone.  "I'm  shore  I  heard—" 
"You  jest  heerd  me  a-talkin'  to  myself,  doctor— or 
not  to  myself,  exactly,  neither— that  is  to  say,  when 
you  come  up  I  was  addressin'  my  remarks  to  this  here 
pill." 

"Bill?  I  don't  see  no  bill."  The  doctor  drew  his 
buggy  nearer.    He  was  a  little  deaf. 

"No,  I  said  this  pill,  doctor.  I'm  a-holdin'  of  it 
here  in  the  pa'm  o'  my  hand,  a-studyin'  over  it." 
"What's  she  a-dosin'  you  for  now,  Enoch?" 
The  doctor  always  called  the  deacon  by  his  first 
name  when  he  approached  him  in  sympathy.  He  did 
not  know  it.  Neither  did  the  deacon,  but  he  felt  the 
sympathy,  and  it  unlocked  the  portals  of  his  heart. 

"Well"— the  old  man's  voice  softened— "she  thinks 
I  stand  in  need  of  'em,  of  co'se.  The  fact  is,  that 
yaller-spotted  steer  run  agin  her  clo'es-line  twice-t  to- 
day, drug  the  whole  week's  washin'  onto  the  ground, 
an*  then  tromped  on  it.  She's  inside  a-renchin'  an' 
a-starchin'  of  'em  over  now.  An'  right  on  top  o'  that, 
I  come  in  lookin'  sort  o'  puny  an'  peaked,  an'  I  hap- 
pened to  choke  on  a  muskitty  jest  ez  I  come  in,  an* 
she  declared  she  wasn't  a-goin'  to  have  a  consumpted 
man  sick  on  her  hands  an'  a  clo 'es-destroyin '  steer  at 
the  same  time.  An'  with  that  she  up  an'  wiped,  her 
hands  on  her  apron,  an'  went  an'  selected  this  here 
pill  out  of  a  bottle  of  assorted  sizes,  an'  instructed 
me  to  take  it.  They  never  was  a  thing  done  mo'  de- 
lib 'rate  an'  kind— never  on  earth.  But  of  co'se  you 
an*  she  know  how  it  plegs  me  to  take  physic.  You 
could  mould  out  ice-cream  in  little  pill  shapes  an'  it 


TEMPERS  OF  GRANDMOTHER  GREGG.        101 

would  gag  me,  even  ef  'twas  vanilly-flavored.  An'  so, 
when  I  received  it,  why,  I  jest  eoare  out  here  tw  medi- 
tate. You  can  see  it  from  where  you  set,  doctor.  It's 
a  purty  sizeable  one,  and  I'm  "feii^hty  sasplfiova  of  it." 

The  doctor  cleared  his  throat.  *'Yas,  I  can  see  it, 
Enoch— of  co'se." 

** Could  you  jedge  of  it,  doctor?  That  is,  of  its 
capabilities,  I  mean?" 

"Why,  no,  of  co'se  not— not  less'n  I'd  taste  it^  an' 
you  can  do  that  ez  well  ez  I  can.  If  it 's  quinine,  it  '11 
be  bitter;  an'  ef  it's  soggy  an'—" 

*' Don't  explain  no  mo',  doctor.  I  can't  stand  it. 
I  s'pose  it's  jest  ez  foolish  to  investigate  the  inward- 
ness of  a  pill  a  person  is  bound  to  take  ez  it  would  be 
to  try  to  lif '  the  veil  of  the  future  in  any  other  way. 
When  I'm  obligated  to  swaller  one  of  'em,  I  jest  take 
a  swig  o'  good  spring  water  and  repeat  a  po'tion  of 
Scripture  and  commit  myself  unto  the  Lord.  I  al- 
ways seem  foreordained  to  choke  to  death,  but  I  notice 
thet  ef  I  recover  from  the  first  spell  o'  suffocation,  I 
always  come  through.  But  I  ain't  never  took  one  yet 
thet  I  didn't  in  a  manner  prepare  to  die." 

**Then  I  wouldn't  take  it,  Enoch.  Don't  do  it." 
The  doctor  cleared  his  throat  again,  but  this  time  he 
had  no  trouble  to  keep  the  corners  of  his  mouth  down. 
His  sympathy  robbed  him  for  the  time  of  the  humor 
in  the  situation.  *'No,  I  wouldn't  do  it;  d— doggone 
ef  I  would." 

The  deacon  looked  into  the  palm  of  his  hand  and 
sighed.  "Oh,  yas,  I  reckon  I  better  take  it,"  he  said, 
mildly.  "Ef  I  don't  stand  in  need  of  it  now,  maybe 
the  good  Lord  '11  sto'e  it  up  in  my  system,  some  way, 
'g'inst  a  future  attackt." 

"Well"— the  doctor  reached  for  his  whip— "well, 
7  wouldn't  do  \i— steer  or  no  steer!'' 

*  *  Oh,  yas,  I  reckon  you  would,  doctor,  ef  you  had  a 
wife  ez  worrited  over  a  wash-tub  ez  what  mine  is.  An* 
I  had  a  extry  shirt  in  wash  this  week  too.  One  little 
pill  ain't  much  when  you  take  in  how  she's  been  tan- 
talized. * ' 


102  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

The  doctor  laughed  outright. 

**Tell  yOu  wh'^jt  tQ4o,  Enooh.    Fling  it  away  and 
don't  let  on.     She  don't  question  you,  does  she?" 

*/No,  ;&iie' ain't  nfever'xo.s.ay  questioned  me,  but- 
Well,  I  tried  that  onee-t.  Sampled  a  bitter  white  cap- 
sule she  give  me,  put  it  down  for  quinine,  an'  flung  it 
away.  Then  I  chirped  up  an'  said  I  felt  a  heap  bet- 
ter—and that  wasn't  no  lie— which  I  suppose  was  on 
account  o'  the  relief  to  my  mind,  which  it  always  did 
seem  to  me  capsules  was  jest  constructed  to  lodge  in  a 
person's  air-passages,  Well,  I  taken  notice  that  she'd 
look  at  me  keen  now  an'  agin,  an'  then  glance  at.  the 
clock,  an'  treckly  I  see  her  fill  the  gou'd  dipper  an'  go 
to  her  medicine-cabinet,  an'  then  she  come  to  me  an' 
she  says,  says  she,  'Open  yore  mouth!'  An'  of  co'se 
I  opened  it.  You  see  that  first  capsule,  ez  well  ez  the 
one  she  had  jest  adminstered,  was  mostly  morphine, 
which  she  had  give  me  to  ward  off  a  'tackt  o'  the  neu- 
raligy  she  see  approachin',  and  here  I  had  been  tryin* 
to  live  up  to  the  requi'ements  of  quinine,  an'  wrastlin' 
severe  with  a  sleepy  spell,  which,  ef  I'd  only  knew  it, 
would  o'  saved  me.  Of  co'se,  after  the  second  dose-t, 
I  jest  let  .nature  take  its  co'se,  an'  treckly  I  com- 
menced to  doze  off,  an'  seemed  like  I  was  a  feather  bed 
an'  wife  had  hung  me  on  the  fence  to  sun,  an'  I  re- 
member how  she  seemed  to  be  a-whuppin'  of  me,  but 
it  didn't  hurt.  That  was  on  account  of  it  bein'  goose- 
pickin'  time,  an'  she  was  werrited  with  windy  weather, 
an'  she  tryin'  to  fill  the  feather  beds.  No,  I  won't 
never  try  to  deceive  her  again.  It  never  has  seemed  to 
me  that  she  could  have  the  same  raspect  for  me  after 
ketchin'  me  at  it,  though  she  'ain't  never  referred  to 
it  but  once-t,  an'  that  was  the  time  I  was  erected  dea- 
con, an'  even  then  she  didn't  do  it  outspoke.  She 
seemed  mighty  tender  over  it,  an'  didn't  no  mo'n  re- 
mind me  thet  a  officer  in  a  Christian  church  ought  to 
examine  hisself  mighty  conscientious  an'  be  sure  he 
was  free  of  deceit,  which,  seemed  to  me,  showed  a  heap 
o'  consideration.  She  'ain't  got  a  deceitful  bone  in 
lier  body,  doctor." 


TEMPERS  OF  GRANDMOTHER  GREGG,         103 

**Wliy,  bless  her  old  soul,  Enoch,  you  know  thet  I 
think  the  world  an'  all  o'  Grandma  Gregg !  She's  the 
Bait  0*  the  earth— an'  rock  salt  at  that.  She's  saved 
too  many  o'  my  patients  by  her  good  nursin',  in  spite 
o'  my  poor  doctorin',  for  me  not  to  appreciate  her. 
But  that  don't  reconcile  me  to  the  way  she  doses  you 
for  her  worries. ' ' 

*'It  took  me  a  long  time  to  see  that  myself,  doctor. 
But  I've  reasoned  it  out  this  a-way :  I  s'pose  when  she 
feels  her  temper  a-risin'  she's  'feered  thet  she  might 
be  so  took  with  her  troubles  thet  she'd  neglect  my 
health,  an'  so  she  wards  off  any  attackt  thet  might  be 
comin'  on.  I  taken  notice  that  time  her  strawberry 
preserves  all  soured  on  her  hands,  an'  she  painted  my 
face  with  iodine,  a  man  did  die  o'  the  erysipelas  down 
here  at  Battle  Creek,  an'  likely  as  not  she'd  heerd  of 
it.  Sir?  No,  I  didn't  mention  it  at  the  time  for  fear 
she'd  think  best  to  lay  on  another  coat,  an'  I  felt  sort 
o'  disfiggured  with  it.  Wife  ain't  a  scoldin'  woman, 
I'm  thankful  for  that.  An'  some  o'  the  peppermints 
an'  things  she  keeps  to  dole  out  to  me  when  she's 
fretted  with  little  things— maybe  her  yeast '11  refuse 
to  rise,  or  a  thunder-storm '11  kill  a  settin'  of  eggs- 
why,  they're  so  :  disguised  ...thet ^'cep't?>^^/ie^  I  .know 
they  We  medicine— **. 

"Well,  Kitty,  I  reckon  we  better  oea-goin'."  The 
doctor  tapped  his  horse."  -*Be  shore  to  give  my  love 
to  Grandma,  Enoch.  -  An*  ef  you're  bound  to  take 
that  pill— of  co'se  I  can't  no  mo'n  speculate  about  it 
at  this  distance,  but  I'd  advise  you  to  keep  clear  o' 
sours  an'  acids  for  a  day  or  so.  Don't  think,  because 
your  teeth  are  all  adjustable,  thet  none  o'  yore  other 
functions  ain't  open  to  salvation.  Good-night, 
Enoch." 

"Oh,  she  always  looks  after  that,  doctor.  She's 
mighty  attentive,  come  to  withholdin'  harmful  temp- 
tations. Good-by,  doctor.  It's  did  me  good  to  open 
my  mind  to  you  a  little. 

"Yas,*'  he  added,  looking  steadily  into  his  palm  as 


104  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

the  buggy  rolled  away— **yas,  it's  did  me  good  to  talk 
to  him;  but  I  ain't  no  more  reconciled  to  you,  you 
barefaced,  higb-foreheaded,  little  rolly-poly,  you. 
Funny  how  a  pill  thet  ain't  got  a  feature  on  earth  can 
look  me  out  o '  countenance  the  way  it  can,  and  frus- 
trate my  speech.  Talk  about  whited  sepulchures,  an' 
ravenin'  wolves!  I  don't  know  how  come  I  to  let  on 
thet  I  was  feeling'  puny  to-night,  nohow.  I  might 've 
knew— with  all  them  clo  'es  cedaubled  over ;  though  I 
can't,  ez  the  doctor  says,  see  how  me  a-takin'  a  pill  is 
goin'  to  help  matters;  but  of  co'se  I  wouldn't  let  on  to 
him,  an '  he  a  bachelor. ' ' 

He  stopped  talking  and  felt  his  wrist. 

"Maybe  my  pulse  is  obstropulous,  an'  ought  to  be 
sedated  down.  Reckon  I'll  haf  to  kill  that  steer— or 
sell  him— one,  though  I  swo'e  I  wouldn't.  But  of 
co'se  I  swo'e  that  in  a  temper,  an'  temp 'rate  vows 
ain't  never  made  'cep'in'  to  be  repented  of." 

Several  times  during  the  last  few  minutes,  while 
the  deacon  spoke,  there  had  come  to  him  across  the 
garden  from  the  kitchen  the  unmistakable  odor  of 
fried  chicken. 

He  had  foreseen  that  there  would  be  a  good  supper 
to-night,  and  that  the  tiny  globule  within  his  palm 
would  constitute  for  him  a  prohibition  concerning  it. 

Grandmother  Gregg  was  one  of  those  worthy  if 
difficult  women  who  never  let  anything  interfere  with 
her  duty  as  she  saw  it  magnified  by  the  lenses  of  pain 
or  temper.  It  usually  pleased  her  injured  mood  to 
make  waffles  on  wash-day,  and  the  hen-house  owed 
many  renovations,  with  a  reckless  upsetting  of  nests 
and  roosts,  to  one  of  her  "splittin'  headaches."  She 
would  always  wash  her  hair  in  view  of  impending 
company,  although  she  averred  that  to  wet  her  scalp 
never  failed  to  bring  on  the  "neuraligy."  And  her 
"neuraligy"  in  turn  meant  medicine  for  the  deacon. 

It  was  probably  the  doctor's  timely  advice,  aug- 
mented, possibly,  by  the  potencies  of  the  frying-pan, 
with  a  strong  underlying  sympathy  with  the  worrying 


TEMPERS  OF  GRANDMOTHER  GREGG.         105 

woman  within  —it  was,  no  doubt,  all  these  powers 
combined  that  suddenly  surprised  the. hitherto  com- 
plying husband  into  such  unprecedented  conduct  that 
any  one  knowing  him  in  his  old  character,  and  seeing 
him  now,  would  have  thought  that  he  had  lost  his  mind. 

With  a  swift  and  brave  fling  he  threw  the  pill  far 
into  the  night.  Then,  in  an  access  of  energy  born  of 
internal  panic,  he  slid  nimbly  from  his  perch  and 
started  in  a  steady  jog-trot  into  the  road,  wiping  away 
the  tears  as  he  went,  and  stammering  between  sobs  as 
he  stumbled  over  the  ruts : 

"No,  I  won't— yas,  I  will,  too— doggone  shame,  and 
ghe  frettin'  her  life  out— of  co'se  I  will— I'll  sell  'im 
for  anything  he'll  fetch— an'  I'll  be  a  better  man,  yas, 
yas  I  will— but  I  won't  swaller  another  one  o'  them 
blame— not  ef  I  die  for  it." 

This  report,  taken  in  long-hand  by  an  amused  lis- 
tener by  the  road-side,  is  no  doubt  incomplete  in  its 
ejaculatcry  form,  but  it  has  at  least  the  value  of  ac- 
curacy, so  far  as  it  goes,  which  may  be  had  only  from 
a  verbatim  transcript. 

It  was  perhaps  three-quarters  of  an  hour  later  when 
Enoch  entered  the  kitchen,  wiping  his  face,  nervous, 
weary,  embarrassed.  Supper  Was  on  the  table.  The 
blue-bordered  dish,  heaped  with  side-bones  and  second 
joints  done  to  a  turn,  was  moved  to  a  side  station, 
while  in  its  accustomed  place  before  Enoch's  plate 
there  sat  an  ominous  bowl  of  gruel.  The  old  man  did 
not  look  at  the  table,  but  he  saw  it  all.  He  would  have 
realized  it  with  his  eyes  shut.  Domestic  history,  as 
well  as  that  of  greater  principalities  and  powers,  often 
repeats  itself. 

Enoch's  fingers  trembled  as  he  came  near  his  wife, 
and  standing  with  his  back  to  the  table,  he  began  to 
untie  a  broad  flat  parcel  that  he  had  brought  in  under 
his  arm.  She  paused  in  one  of  her  trips  between  the 
table  and  stove,  and  regarded  him  askance. 

"Reckon  I'll  haf  to  light  the  lantern  befo'  I  set 
down  to  eat,  wife,"  he  said,  by  way  of  introduction. 


106  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

**Isrul  '11  be  along  d'rec'ly  to  rope  that  steer.  I've 
done  sold  him."  The  good  woman  laid  her  dish  upon 
the  table  and  returned  to  the  stove. 

"Wish  you'd  'a'  sold  'im  day  befo'  yesterday.  I'd 
'a'  had  a  heap  less  pain  in  my  shoulder-blade."  She 
sniffed  as  she  said  it ;  and  then  she  added,  "That  gruel 
ought  to  be  e't  warm." 

By  this  time  the  parcel  was  open.  There  was  a 
brief  display  of  colored  zephyrs  and  gleaming  card- 
board.    Then  Enoch  began  rewrapping  them. 

"Reckon  you  can  look  these  over  in  the  mornin*, 
wife.  They're  jest  a  few  new  cross-stitch  Bible  texts, 
an'  I  knowed  you  liked  Scripture  motters.  Where '11 
I  lay  'em,  wife,  while  I  go  out  an'  tend  to  lightin'  that 
lantern?  I  told  Isrul  I'd  set  it  in  the  stable  door  so's 
as  he  could  git  that  steer  out  o'  the  way  immejate." 

The  proposal  to  lay  the  mottoes  aside  was  a  master- 
stroke. 

The  aggrieved  wife  had  already  begun  to  wipe  her 
hands  on  her  apron.  Still,  she  would  not  seem  too  eas- 
ily appeased. 

"I  do  hope  you  ain't  gone  an'  turned  that  whole 
Bteer  into  perforated  paper,  Enoch,  even  ef  'tis  Bible- 
texted  over." 

Thus  she  guarded  her  dignity.  But  even  as  she 
spoke  she  took  the  parcel  from  his  hands.  This  was 
encouragement  enough.  It  presaged  a  thawing  out. 
And  after  Enoch  had  gone  out  to  light  the  lantern,  it 
would  have  amused  a  sympathetic  observer  to  watch 
her  gradual  melting  as  she  looked  over  the  mottoes : 

"A  VIRTUOUS  WIFE  IS  FAR  ABOVE 
RUBIES." 

"A  PRUDENT  VflFE  IS  FROM  THE  LORD." 
"BETTER  A   DINNER   OF   HERBS   WHERE 
LOVE  IS-" 

She  read  them  over  and  over.  Then  she  laid  them 
aside  and  looked  at  Enoch's  plate.  Then  she  looked 
at  the  chicken-dish,  and  then  at  the  bowl  of  gruel 


TEMPERS  OF  GRANDMOTHER  GREGG.         107 

which  she  had  carefully  set  on  the  back  of  the  stove 
to  keep  warm. 

''Don't  know  ez  it  would  hurt  'im  any  ef  I'd 
thicken  that  gruel  up  into  mush.  He 's  took  sech  a  dis- 
taste to  soft  foods*  sense  he's  got  that  new  set." 

She  rose  as  she  spoke,  poured  the  gruel  back  into  the 
pot,  sifted  and  mixed  a  spoonful  of  meal  and  stirred  it 
in.  This  done,  she  hesitated,  glanced  at  the  pile  of 
mottoes,  and  reflected.  Then  with  a  sudden  resolve 
she  seized  the  milk-pitcher,  filled  a  cup  from  it,  poured 
the  milk  into  the  little  pot  of  mush,  hastily  whipped 
up  two  eggs  with  some  sugar,  added  the  mixture  to 
the  pot,  returned  the  whole  to  the  yellow  bowl,  and  set 
it  in  the  oven  to  brown. 

And  just  then  Enoch  came  in,  and  approached  the 
water-shelf. 

"Don't  keer  how  you  polish  it,  a  brass  lantern  an' 
coal  ile  is  like  murder  on  a  man 's  hands.    It  will  out. ' ' 

He  was  thinking  of  the  gruel,  and  putting  off  the 
evil  hour.  It  had  been  his  intention  to  boldly  an- 
nounce that  he  hadn't  taken  his  medicine,  that  he 
never  would  again  unless  he  needed  it,  and,  moreover, 
that  he  was  going  to  eat  his  supper  to-night,  and  al- 
ways, as  long  as  God  should  spare  him,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

But  he  had  no  sooner  found  himself  in  the  presence 
of  long-confessed  superior  powers  than  he  knew  he 
would  never  do  any  of  these  things. 

His  wife  was  thinking  of  the  gruel  too  when  she 
encouraged  delay  by  remarking  that  he  would  better 
rest  up  a  bit  before  eating. 

"And  I  reckon  you  better  soak  yo'  hands  good. 
Take  a  pinch  o'  that  bran  out  o'  the  safe  to  'em,"  she 
said,  "and  ef  that  don't  do,  the  Floridy  water  is  in 
on  my  bureau." 

When  finally  Enoch  presented  himself,  ready  for 
his  fate,  she  was  able  to  set  the  mush  pudding,  done 
to  a  fine  brown,  before  him,  and  her  tone  was  really 
tender  as  she  said: 

* '  This  ain  't  very  hearty  ef  you  're  hungry ;  but  you 


108  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

can  eat  it  all.    There  ain't  no  interference  in  it  with 
anything  you've  took." 

The  pudding  was  one  of  Enoch's  favorite  dishes, 
but  as  he  broke  its  brown  surface  with  his  spoon  he 
felt  like  a  hypocrite.  He  took  one  long  breath,  and 
then  he  said : 

"By- the- way,  wife,  this  reminds  me,  I  reckon  you'll 
haf  to  fetch  me  another  o'  them  pills.  I  dropped  that 
one  out  in  the  grass— that  is,  ef  you  think  I  still  stand 
in  need  of  it.  I  feel  consider 'ble  better 'n  I  did  when 
I  come  in  this  evenin'." 

The  good  woman  eyed  him  suspiciously  a  minute. 
Then  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  words  "ABOVE 
RUBIES"  lying  upon  the  table.  Reaching  over,  she 
lifted  the  pudding-bowl  aside,  took  the  dish  of  fried 
chicken  from  its  sub-station,  and  set  it  before  her  lord. 

"Better  save  that  pudd'n'  for  dessert,  honey,  an* 
help  yo'self  to  some  o'  that  chicken,  an'  take  a  potater 
an'  a  roll,  and  eat  a  couple  o'  them  spring  onions— 
they're  the  first  we've  had.  Sence  you're  a-feelin' 
better,  maybe  it's  jest  ez  well  thet  you  mislaid  that 
pill." 

The  wind  blows  sometimes  from  the  east  in  Simkins- 
ville,  as  elsewhere,  and  there  are  still  occasional  days 
when  the  deacon  betakes  himself  to  the  front  gate  and 
sits  like  a  nineteenth-century  Simon  Stilites  on  his  pil- 
lar, contemplating  the  open  palm  of  his  own  hand, 
while  he  enriches  Mrs.  Frequent 's  repertoire  of  gossip 
by  a  picturesque  item. 

But  the  reverse  of  the  picture  has  much  of  joy  in 
it ;  for,  in  spite  of  her  various  tempers,  Grandmother 
Gregg  is  a  warm-hearted  soul— and  she  loves  her  man. 
And  he  loves  her. 

Listen  to  him  to-night,  for  instance,  as,  having  fin- 
ished his  supper,  he  remarks: 

"An'  I'm  a-goin'  to  see  to  it,  from  this  on,  thet  you 
ain't  fretted  with  things  ez  you've  been,  ef  I  can  help 
it,  wife.  Sometimes,  the  way  I  act,  I  seem  like  ez  ef  I 
forgit  you're  all  I've  got— on  earth." 

"Of  co'se  I  realize  that,  Enoch,"  she  replies. 
"We're  each  one  all  the  other's  got— an'  that's  why  I 
don't  spare  no  pains  to  keep  you  in  health." 

—Ruth  McEnery  Stuakt.. 


IX 

DR.  BARRERE. 
CHAPTER  I. 


Y\    R-  BARRERE  was  a  young  man  who  was  be- 

^^1  ginning  to  make  his  way.  In  the  medical  pro- 
^^  fession,  as  in  most  others,  this  is  not  a  very 
easy  thing  to  do,  and  no  doubt  he  had  made  some  mis- 
takes. He  had  given  offence  in  his  first  practice  to  the 
principal  person  in  the  little  town  where  he  had  set 
up  his  surgery  by  explaining  that  certain  symptoms 
which  his  patient  believed  to  mean  heart  disease  were 
due  solely  to  indigestion ;  and  he  still  more  deeply  of- 
fended that  gentleman's  wife  by  telling  her  that  her 
children  were  over-fed.  These  are  follies  which  a  more 
experienced  medical  man  would  never  commit;  but 
this  one  was  young  and  fresh  from  those  studies  in 
which,  more  than  in  any  other  profession,  things  have 
to  be  called  by  their  right  names.  In  his  next  attempt 
he  had  nearly  got  into  more  serious  trouble  still,  by  his 
devotion  to  an  interesting  and  difficult  case,  in  which, 
unfortunately,  the  patient  was  a  woman.  From  this 
he  came  out  clear,  with  no  stain  on  his  character,  as 
magistrates  say.  But  for  a  doctor,  as  often  for  a 
woman,  it  is  enough  that  evil  has  been  said.  The  slan- 
der, though  without  proof,  has  more  or  less  a  sting, 
and  is  recollected  when  all  the  circumstances— the  dis- 
proval,  the  clearing-up,  even  the  facts  of  the  case  have 
been  forgotten.  He  was,  therefore,  not  without  exper- 
ience when  he  came  to  settle  in  the  great  town  of  Pool- 
borough,  which  might  be  supposed  large  enough  and 
busy  enough  to  take  no  note  of  those  village  lies  and 
tempests  in  a  teapot.    And  this  proved  to  be  the  case. 

(109) 


110         THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

He  was  young,  he  was  clever,  he  was  au  courani  of  all 
the  medical  discoveries,  knew  everything  that  had 
been  discovered  by  other  men,  and  was  not  without  lit- 
tle discoveries  and  inventions  of  his  own.  He  was  still 
young,  a  few  years  over  thirty,  at  the  age  which  com- 
bines the  advantages  of  youth  and  of  maturity,  strong 
in  mind  and  in  body,  loving  work,  and  fearing 
nothing.  If  his  previous  encounters  with  the  foolish 
side  of  humanity  had  diminished  in  some  degree  his 
faith  in  it,  and  opened  his  eyes  to  the  risks  which 
those  who  think  no  evil  are  apt  to  run  in  their  first 
conflict  with  the  stupidities  and  base  ideas  of  men,  he 
had  yet  not  suffered  enough  to  make  him  bitter,  or 
more  than  wary  in  his  dealings  with  the  narrow  and 
uncomprehending.  He  no  longer  felt  sure  of  being 
understood,  or  that  a  true  estimate  of  his  intentions 
and  motives  was  certain ;  but  he  did  not  go  to  the  op- 
posite extreme  as  some  do,  and  take  it  for  granted  that 
his  patients  and  their  surroundings  were  incapable  of 
doing  him  justice.  He  was  sobered,  but  not  embit- 
tered. He  was  wise  enough  neither  to  ^how  too  much 
interest,  nor  to  betray  too  great  an  indifference.  He 
listened  seriously  to  the  tale  of  symptoms  which  were 
nothing  to  anybody  but  their  narrator,  and  he  re- 
strained his  excitement  when  a  matter  of  real  import- 
ance, something  delicate  and  critical,  came  under  his 
view.  Thus  it  was  proved  that  he  had  learned  his  les- 
son. But  he  did  not  despise  his  fellow  cratures  in 
general,  or  think  all  alike  guilty  of  affectation  ana 
self-regard,  which  showed  that  he  had  not  learned  that 
lesson  with  extravagance.  He  was  kind,  but  not  too 
kind.  He  was  clever,  but  not  so  clever  as  to  get  the 
alarming  character  of  an  experimentalist— in  short, 
he  was  in  every  way  doing  well  and  promising  well. 
When  the  untoward  accident  occurred  which  cut  short 
his  career  in  Poolborough  where  he  was  universally 
well  thought  of  and  looked  upon  as  a  rising  man. 

It  may  be  well  before  going  further  to  indicate  cer- 
tain particulars  in  his  antecedents  which  throw  light 


DR.  BARRERB.  Ill 

upon  Dr.  Barrere's  character  and  idiosyncrasies.  He 
was  of  French  origin,  as  may  be  perceived  by  his 
name.  The  name  was  not  so  distinctly  French  as  held 
by  his  father  and  grandfather,  who  ignored  the 
nationality,  and  wrote  it  phonetically  Barraire.  In 
their  days,  perhaps,  a  French  origin  was  not  an  ad- 
vantage. But  in  the  days  when  Arnold  Barrere  was 
at  college  this  prejudice  had  disappeared,  and  he  was 
himself  delighted  to  resort  to  the  old  orthography,  and 
liked  his  friends  to  remember  the  accent  which  it 
pleased  him  to  employ.  Perhaps  the  keen  logical  ten- 
dency of  his  mind  and  disposition  to  carry  everything 
out  to  its  legitimate  conclusion  with  a  severity  which 
the  English  love  of  compromise  and  accident  prevents, 
w^ere  more  important  signs  of  his  origin  than  even  the 
accent  over  the  e.  Dr.  Barrere  for  his  part  did  not 
like  to  elude  the  right  and  logical  ending  either  of  an 
accent  or  a  disease.  It  annoyed  him  even  that  his 
patient  should  recover  in  an  irregular  way.  He  liked 
the  symptoms  to  follow  each  other  in  proper  sequence ; 
and  the  end  which  was  foreseen  and  evident  was  that 
which  he  preferred  to  have  occur,  even  when  the 
avoidance  of  it,  and  deliverance  of  the  sufferer  were 
due  to  his  own  powers.  Like  his  nation,  or  rather  like 
the  nation  of  his  forefathers,  he  was  disposed  to  carry 
out  everything  to  its  logical  end.  His  outward  man, 
like  his  mind,  bore  evidence  of  his  parentage.  He  was 
about  the  middle  height,  of  a  light  and  spare  figure, 
with  a  thickly-growing  but  short  and  carefully  crop- 
ped black  beard,  his  complexion  rather  dark  but  very 
clear,  his  voice  somewhat  high-pitched  for  an  English- 
man, with  an  animated  manner,  and  a  certain  sym- 
pathetic action  of  head  and  hand  when  he  talked, 
scarcely  <3nough  to  be  called  gesticulation,  yet  more 
than  usually  accompanies  English  speech.  He  seemed, 
in  short,  to  have  missed  the  influence  of  the  two  gener- 
ations of  English  mothers  and  manners  which  might 
have  been  supposed  to  subdue  all  peculiarities  of  race, 
and  to  have  stepped  back  to  the  immediate  succession 


112  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

of  that  Arnold  Barrere  who  was  the  first  to  bring  the 
name  to  this  island.  These  individual  features  gave  a 
certain  piquancy,  many  people  thought,  to  the  really 
quite  English  breeding  of  the  doctor,  who  had  never  so 
much  as  crossed  the  Channel,  and  knew  little  more 
French  than  was  consistent  with  a  just  placing  of  the 
accents,  especially  upon  the  letter  e. 

It  would  be  unnecessary  to  enter  into  full  detail  of 
how  he  formed  acquaintance  with  the  Surtees,  and 
came  to  the  degree  of  intimacy  which  soon  developed 
into  other  thoughts.  It  is  a  proper  thing  enough  in  a 
story,  though  not  very  true  to  real  life,  to  describe  a 
young  doctor  as  falling  in  love,  by  a  sick  bed,  with  the 
angel-daughter  who  is  the  best  nurse  and  ministrant 
that  a  sick  parent  can  have.  Members  of  the  medical 
profession  are  not  more  prone  than  other  men  to 
mingle  their  affections  Avith  the  requirements  of  their 
profession,  and  probably  a  devoted  nurse  is  no  more 
the  ideal  of  a  young  doctor  than  a  good  model  is  that 
of  a  painter.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  however,  it  was 
while  attending  Mrs.  Surtees  through  a  not  very  dan- 
gerous or  interesting  illness  that  Dr.  Barrere  made  the 
acquaintance  of  Agnes.  He  might  just  as  well  have 
met  her  in  the  society  which  he  frequented  sparingly, 
for  there  was  no  particular  difference  in  her  sphere 
and  his,  but  there  were  reasons  why  Miss  Surtees  went 
out  little,  less  than  most  young  women  of  her  age.  Her 
family  was  one  of  those  which  had  ranked  amongst  the 
best  in  Poolborough  in  the  time  of  their  wealth,  and 
no  one  could  say  still  that  their  place  was  not  with 
"the  best  people"  of  the  town.  But  with  a  mercantile 
community  more  than  any  other  ( though  also  more  or 
less  in  every  other)  wealth  is  necessary  for  the  retain- 
ing of  that  position.  Women  who  go  afoot  cannot 
keep  up  with  those  who  have  carriages  and  horses  at 
their  command,  neither  can  a  girl  in  whose  house  no 
dances,  no  dinners,  no  entertainments,  are  ever  given, 
associate  long  on  easy  terms  with  those  who  are  in  the 
full  tide  of  everything,  going  everywhere,  and  ex- 


DR.  BARRERE.  113 

changing  hospitalities  after  the  lavish  fashion  of 
wealthy  commercial  society.  And  this  was  not  the 
only  reason  that  kept  Agnes  Surtees  out  of  the  world. 
There  was  one  more  urgent  which  was  told,  and  one 
which  no  one  named  but  every  one  understood.  The 
first  was  the  delicate  health  of  her  mother.  Dr.  Bar- 
rere  was  aware  that  there  was  not  very  much  in  this. 
He  knew  that  had  she  been  able  to  drive  about  as  did 
the  ladies  who  were  so  sorry  for  her,  and  clothe  herself 
in  furs  and  velvet,  and  take  change  of  air  whenever 
she  felt  disposed,  there  would  have  been  little  the  mat- 
ter with  Mrs.  Surtees.  But  he  was  too  sensible  to 
breathe  a  word  on  this  subject.  He  held  his  tongue  at 
first  from  discretion,  and  afterwards  because  he  had 
found  out  for  himself  why  it  was  that  Mrs.  Surtees' 
delicate  health  was  kept  before  the  public  of  Pool- 
borough.  It  took  him  some  time  to  make  this  discov- 
ery ;  but  partly  from  hints  of  others,  and  partly  from 
his  own  perceptions,  he  found  it  out  at  last. 

It  was  that  these  two  ladies  were  involved  in  the  life 
of  a  third  member  of  their  household— a  son  and 
brother  whom  the  "best  people"  in  Poolborough  had 
ceased  to  invite,  and  whose  name  when  it  was  men- 
tioned was  accompanied  with  shakings  of  the  head 
and  looks  of  disapproval.  Dr.  Barrere  did  not  ever 
see  Jim  Surtees  until  he  had  been  acquainted  with  his 
mother  and  sister  for  nearly  a  year— not  that  he  was 
absent,  but  only  that  his  haunts  and  associates  were 
not  theirs.  He  was  a  young  man  who  had  never  done 
well.  He  had  been  far  more  highly  educated  than  was 
usual  with  the  young  men  of  Poolborough ;  instead  of 
being  sent  into  the  counting-house  in  his  youth  he  had 
been  sent  to  Cambridge,  which  was  all  his  father's 
pride  and  folly,  the  critics  said,  exempting  Mrs.  Sur- 
tees from  blame  in  a  manner  most  unusual.  It  was 
supposed  that  she  had  disapproved.  She  had  come  of 
a  Poolborough  family,  in  business  from  father  to  son, 
and  knew  what  was  necessary ;  but  Surtees  was  from 
the  country,  from  a  poor  race  of  county  people,  and 

2—8 


114  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

was  disposed  to  think  business  beneath  him,  or  at  least 
consider  it  as  a  mere  stepping-stone  to  wealth.  When 
he  died  so  much  less  well  off  than  was  expected,  leav- 
ing his  family  but  poorly  provided  for,  then  was  the 
moment  when  Jim  Surtees  might  have  proved  what 
was  in  him,  and  stepped  into  the  breach,  replaced  his 
mother  and  sister  in  their  position,  and  restored  the 
credit  of  his  father's  name.  In  that  case  all  the  old 
friends  would  have  rallied  around  him;  they  would 
have  backed  him  up  with  their  credit,  and  given  him 
every  advantage.  At  such  moments  and  in  such 
emergencies  mercantile  men  are  at  their  best.  No  one 
would  have  refused  the  young  man  a  helping  hand— 
they  would  have  hoisted  him  upon  their  shoulders  into 
his  father's  place;  they  would  have  helped  him 
largely,  generously,  manfully.  Alas!  Jim  Surtees 
did  then  and  there  show  what  was  in  him.  He  had 
neither  energy  nor  spirit  nor  ambition,  nor  any  care 
for  his  father's  name  or  his  mother's  comfort.  He 
said  at  once  that  he  knew  nothing  about  business. 
"What  could  he  do?  It  was  entirely  out  of  his  way. 
He  scarcely  knew  what  it  was  his  father  dealt  in.  Cot- 
ton? Yes— but  what  did  he  know  about  cotton,  or 
bookkeeping,  or  anything?  The  young  man  was  in- 
terviewed by  all  who  knew  him;  he  was  sent  for  by 
the  greatest  merchants  in  Poolborough.  What  he 
ought  to  do  was  set  before  him  by  everybody  who  had 
any  right  to  speak,  and  by  a  great  many  who  had 
none.  But  nothing  moved  him.  He  knew  nothing 
about  business— he  would  do  nothing  in  it.  Why 
should  he  try  what  he  could  not  do  ?  And  with  these 
replies  he  baffled  all  the  anxious  counsellors  who  were 
so  eager  to  convince  him  to  the  contrary.  Then  there 
were  situations  suggested,  even  provided,  for  him ;  but 
these  were  all  subject  to  the  same  objections.  Finally 
it  came  about  that  Jim  Surtees  did  nothing.  He  had 
not  been  long  enough  at  Cambridge  to  take  his  degree. 
He  was  modest  about  his  own  capacities  even  when 
pupils  were  suggested  to  him.     He  did  not  know 


DR.  BARRERE.  115 

enough  to  teach,  he  declared,  till  his  modesty  drove  the 
anxious  advisers  distracted.  What  was  to  be  done? 
Jim  Surtees  eluded  every  expedient  to  make  him  do 
anything.  At  last  he  dropped  altogether,  and  the  best 
people  in  Poolborough  were  conscious  of  his  existence 
no  more. 

These  were  the  circumstances  of  the  Surtees  family 
when  Dr.  Barrere  made  their  acquaintance.  He 
thought  for  some  time  that  the  two  ladies  lived  alone, 
and  that  their  withdrawal  from  society  was  somewhat 
absurd,  based  as  it  was  on  that  delusion  about  Mrs. 
Surtees'  health;  but  a  little  further  information  made 
him  change  his  mind.  He  changed  his  mind  about  sev- 
eral things,  modifying  his  first  impressions  as  time 
went  on.  He  had  thought  the  mother  one  of  those  im- 
aginary invalids  who  enjoy  that  gentle  level  of  ill- 
health  which  does  not  involve  much  suffering,  and 
which  furnishes  a  pretty  and  interesting  role  for  many 
unoccupied  women ;  and  he  had  thought  her  daughter 
an  angelic  creature,  whose  faith  in  her  mother's 
migraines  was  such  that  she  cheerfullz  and  sweetly 
gave  up  the  pleasures  of  her  youth  in  order  to  minister 
to  them.  But  as  Dr.  Barrere  changed  from  a  doctor 
into  a  friend ;  as  he  began  to  ask  admittance  at  times 
when  he  was  not  called  for,  and  when,  last  seal  of  a 
growing  intimacy,  he  be^an  to  venture  to  knock  at  the 
door  in  the  evening  after  dinner— a  privilege  which 
he  pleaded  for  as  belonging  to  the  habits  of  his  French 
ancestry  (of  which  he  knew  so  little)— his  eyes  were 
speedily  opened  to  many  things  which  a  morning  vis- 
itor would  never  have  divined.  The  first  time  he  did 
so,  he  perceived  to  his  astonishment  Agnes  on  the  land- 
ing, half  concealed  by  the  turn  of  the  staircase, 
eagerly  looking  down  to  see  who  it  was;  and  her 
mother,  though  so  little  able  to  move  about,  was  at  the 
door  of  the  little  drawing-room,  looking  flushed  and 
wretched,  far  more  ill  than  when  he  had  been  called  in 
to  prescribe  for  her.  For  whom  was  it  that  they  were 
looking?    It  could  not  be  for  himself,  whom  nobody 


116  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

had  expected,  whom  they  received  with  a  tremulous 
kindness,  half  relieved,  half  reluctant.  After  a  few 
such  visits  he  began  to  see  that  the  minds  of  these  poor 
ladies  were  divided  between  pleasure  in  his  society  and 
fear  to  have  him  there.  If  he  stayed  a  little  longer 
than  usual  he  saw  that  they  became  anxious,  the 
mother  breathless,  with  a  desire  to  have  him  go  away ; 
and  that  even  Agnes  would  accompany  him  down 
stairs  with  an  eager  alacrity  as  if  she  could  not  be 
comfortable  till  she  had  seen  him  out  of  the  house. 
And  yet  they  were  always  kind,  liked  him  to  come, 
looked  for  him,  even  would  say  a  word  which  showed 
that  they  had  noted  his  absence  if  for  a  week  or  so  he 
did  not  appear;  althoue:h  while  he  was  there  they  were 
ever  watchful,  starting  at  every  sound,  hurrying  him 
away  if  he  stayed  beyond  his  time.  The  sight  of  a  tall 
figure  lurching  along  the  street,  of  some  one  fumbling 
with  a  latch-key,  of  which  he  was  sometimes  conscious 
as  he  went  away,  was  scarcely  necessary  at  last  to 
make  him  aware  what  it  was  that  occasioned  this  anx- 
iety. Mrs.  Surtees  saw  love  dawning  in  the  Doctor's 
eyes.  She  would  not  shut  out  from  her  patient  girl 
the  chances  of  a  happier  lot ;  but  what  if  the  doctor 
should  meet  Jim!  See  him  coming  home  sodden  and 
stupid,  or  noisy  and  gay.  As  Dr.  Barrere  became  in- 
timate they  had  spoken  to  him  of  Jim.  He  was  study- 
ing hard,  he  was  writing,  he  was  always  busy,  he  was 
not  fond  of  society.  There  were  so  many  reasons  why 
he  should  never  appear.  And  by  and  by  the  doctor, 
with  a  great  ache  of  pity,  had  learned  all  these  excuses 
by  heart,  and  penetrated  their  secret,  and  miscon- 
strued their  actions  and  habits  no  more 

Finally  the  doctor  made  the  acquaintance  of  Jim, 
and  to  his  great  surprise  not  only  liked  him,  but  un- 
derstood why  the  mother  and  sister  were  not  always 
miserable,  how  life  varied  with  them  from  day  to  day, 
and  how  even  Mrs.  Surtees  was  often  cheerful,  though 
never  unwatchful,  never  at  ease.  Dr.  Barrere  thought 
with  justice  that  nothing  could  be  more  miserable, 


DR.  BARRERE.  117 

more  inexcusable,  than  the  life  the  young  man  was 
leading.  In  theory  fate  should  have  put  into  every 
honest  hand  a  whip  to  scourge  such  a  good-for- 
nothing.  And  sometimes  the  doctor  felt  a  righteous 
wrath,  a  desire  to  scourge  till  the  blood  came :  but  it 
was  not  so  much  out  of  moral  indignation  as  out  of  an 
exasperated  liking,  an  intolerable  pity.  What  might 
happen  in  the  house  in  those  awful  moments  when  all 
was  silent,  and  everybody  at  rest  save  the  mother  and 
sister  watching  for  Jim's  return  at  night,  neither  the 
doctor  nor  any  one  knew.  But  at  other  moments  Dr. 
Barrere  found  it  impossible  to  resist,  any  more  than 
the  women  did,  the  charm  of  a  nature  which  had  not 
lost  its  distinction  even  in  the  haunts  where  he  had 
lost  everything  else.  He  even  tried  to  attract  and 
draw  to  himself  the  prodigal,  entertaining  visions  on 
the  subject  and  fancying  how,  if  there  were  a  man 
closely  connected  with  the  family,  himself  to  wit, 
Arnold  Barrere,  and  not  merely  women  who  wept  and 
reproached  and  condoned  and  wept  again,  but  never 
made  a  determined  stand,  nor  struck  a  decisive  blow, 
there  might  still  be  hope  for  Jim.  It  could  not  be  said 
that  this  told  as  a  motive  in  the  fervour  with  which  he 
offered  himself  to  Agnes  Surtees.  The  doctor  was  in 
love  warmly  and  honestly,  and  as  he  made  his  declar- 
ation thought,  as  a  lover  ought,  of  nothing  but  Agnes. 
Yet  when  she  hesitated  and  faltered,  and  after  a  mo- 
ment broke  the  long  silence  and  spoke  to  him  openly 
of  her  brother,  there  was  the  warmth  of  a  personal  de- 
sire in  the  eagerness  with  which  he  met  her  confessions 
half  way.  *'Jim  is  no  drawback,"  he  said  eagerly— 
"to  me  none.  I  can  help  you  with  Jim.  If  you  will 
have  me  there  shall  be  no  question  of  depriving  him  of 
any  love  or  care.  He  shall  have  me  in  addition  to  help 
him  to  better  things."  *'0h,"  Agnes  had  cried,  giv- 
ing him  both  her  hands  in  the  fervour  of  love  and 
trust,  "God  bless  you,  Arnold,  for  speaking  of  better 
things  for  Jim, ' '  And  it  was  on  this  holy  ground  that 
their  contract  was  made.  Henceforward  there  were 
no  concealments  from  him. 


118  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

Dr.  Barrere  was  not  a  man  to  let  the  grass  grow 
under  his  feet.  There  was  no  reason  why  his  marriage 
should  be  delayed.  He  wanted  to  have  his  wife— a 
possession  almost  indispensable,  he  assured  Mrs.  Sur- 
tees,  with  a  smile,  to  a  medical  man ;  and  the  mother, 
anxious  to  see  one  child's  fate  assured,  and  still  more 
anxious,  catching  with  feverish  hope  at  the  help  so 
hopefully  offered  for  the  other,  had  no  inclination  to 
put  obstacles  in  the  way.  The  marriage  day  was  set- 
tled, and  all  the  preparations  thereto  begun,  when  the 
sudden  horror  which  still  envelopes  the  name  of  Sur- 
tees  in  Poolborough  arose  in  a  moment,  and  the  follow- 
ing incidents  occurred  to  Dr.  Barrere. 


DR.  BARRERB.  U9 


CHAPTER  II. 

f  1_jr  E  WAS  going  to  visit  a  patient  in  a  suburb  one 
IwJSS'  ^^^^  October  night.  But  it  could  scarcely  be 
^gpml  called  dark.  There  was  a  pallid  moon  some- 
where among  the  clouds  whitening  the  heavy  mist  that 
lay  over  the  half -built  environs  of  the  town— dismal 
blank  spaces— fields  which  were  no  longer  fields, 
streets  which  were  not  yet  streets.  The  atmosphere 
was  charged  with  vapour,  which  in  its  turn  was  made 
into  a  dim,  confusing  whiteness  by  the  hidden  moon. 
Everybody  knows  how  dismal  are  these  outskirts  of  a 
great  city.  A  house  built  here  and  there  stood  out 
with  a  sinister  solidity  against  the  blank  around.  New 
roads  and  streets  laid  out  with  indications  of  pave- 
ment, cut  across  the  ravaged  fields.  Here  and  there 
was  a  mass  of  bricks,  and  there  a  pool  of  water.  A 
piece  of  ragged  hedgerow,  a  remnant  of  its  earlier 
state,  still  bordered  the  highway  here  and  there;  a 
forlorn  tree  shedding  its  leaves  at  every  breath  of  air 
stood  at  the  corner  where  two  ways  met.  Dr.  Barrere 
was  no  ways  timid,  but  he  felt  a  chill  of  isolation  and 
something  like  danger  as  he  pushed  his  way  towards 
one  of  the  furthest  points  of  the  uncompleted  road, 
where  one  house  stood  shivering  in  the  vague  damp 
and  whiteness.  He  had  to  cross  the  other  branching 
road,  at  the  corner  of  which  stood  the  shivering  pop- 
lar, which  shed  its  leaves  as  if  with  a  perpetual  shrink- 
ing of  fear.  There  he  was  vaguely  aware  of  something 
standing  in  the  shade  of  the  ragged  hedgerow— a 
figure  which  moved  as  he  passed,  and  seemed  to  make 
a  step  forward  as  if  awaiting  some  one.  To  say  that 
it  was  a  figure  he  saw  would  be  too  distinct— he  saw  a 
.movement,  a  something  more  solid  than  the  mist, 
which  detached  itself  as  if  with  a  suggestion  of  watch- 
fulness, and  immediately  subsided  again  back  into  the 


120  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

shadows.  Dr.  Barrere,  though  he  was  not  timid,  felt 
the  thrill  as  of  a  possible  danger,  the  suggestion  hav- 
ing something  in  it  more  moving  than  a  distincter 
peril.  But  if  there  was  a  man  lurking  there  waiting 
for  some  passer-by,  it  was  not  at  least  for  him,  and 
he  walked  quickly  on,  and  presently  in  the  interest  of 
his  patient,  and  in  the  many  thoughts  that  hurry 
through  every  active  brain,  forgot  the  curious  hint  of 
mystery  and  danger  which  had  for  a  moment  excited 
his  imagination. 

When  he  approached  the  spot  again  on  his  return, 
even  the  suggestion  had  died  out  of  his  mind.  His 
eyesight  and  all  his  faculties  were  keen,  as  befits  his 
profession,  and  he  saw,  without  being  aware  that  he 
was  seeing,  everything  that  oame  within  his  range  of 
vision.  Accordingly  he  perceived  without  paying  any 
attention,  the  vague  figure  of  a  man  crossing  the  open- 
ing of  the  road  where  the  poplar  marked  the  corner, 
coming  towards  him.  He  saw  the  solid  speck  in  the 
white  mist  approaching— then  in  a  moment,  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  this  vague  silhouette  in  the  night 
became  a  sudden  swift  scene  of  pantomimic  tragedy, 
all  done  and  over  in  a  moment.  A  sudden  movement 
took  place  in  the  scene ;  another  something,  almost  less 
than  a  shadow,  suddenly  came  into  it  from  behind  the 
poplar.  No,  these  words  are  too  strong.  What  came 
into  the  night  was  the  sound  of  a  crashing  blow  and  a 
fall,  and  another  figure,  in  a  different  position,  stand- 
ing over  something  prostrate,  raining  down,  as  in  a  fit 
of  frantic  passion,  blow  on  blow.  Passion,  murder, 
horror,  came  in  a  second  into  the  still  confusion  of  the 
misty  air.  Then,  swift  as  the  sudden  commotion,  came 
a  pause— a  wild  cry  of  consternation,  as  if  for  the  first 
time  the  actor  in  this  terrible  momentary  tragedy  had 
become  aware  of  what  he  was  doing.  The  spectator's 
senses  were  so  absorbed  in  the  suddenness  of  the  catas- 
trophe that  there  was  time  enough  for  the  whole 
drama  to  enact  itself  before  he  found  voice.  He  had 
broken  mechanically  into  a  run,  and  thought  that  he 


DR.  BARRERE.  121 

called  out.  But  it  was  not  (it  seemed  to  him  in  the 
hurried  progression  of  ideas)  his  cry  or  the  sound  of 
his  approach,  but  a  sudden  horror  which  had  seized 
the  man  (was  he  a  murderer?),  who  had  in  a  moment 
come  to  himself.  When  the  doctor  at  full  speed,  and 
calling  out  mechanically,  automatically,  for  Help! 
help !  reached  the  spot  where  the  prostrate  figure  was 
lying,  the  other  had  taken  flight  down  the  cross  road 
and  was  already  invisible  in  the  distance.  The  doc- 
tor's first  care  was  for  the  victim.  He  was  not  an 
avenger  of  blood,  but  a  healer  of  men. 

Presently  there  appeared  around  him  two  or  three 
startled  people— one  from  the  nearest  house  carrying 
a  small  lamp,  which  made  the  strangest,  weird  appear- 
ance in  the  misty  night ;  a  passerby  on  his  way  home ; 
a  vagrant  from  the  deserted  fields.  They  helped  the 
doctor  to  turn  over  the  murdered  man,  who  was  still 
living,  but  no  more,  and  who,  it  was  evident  to  Dr. 
Barrere's  experienced  eyes,  was  on  the  point  of  death 
and  beyond  all  human  help.  The  lamp  had  been 
placed  on  the  ground  close  by,  and  sent  up  an  odour 
of  paraffin  along  with  the  yellow  rays  that  proceeded 
from  its  globe  of  light,  and  the  figures  kneeling  and 
bending  over  the  inanimate  thing  in  the  midst  looked 
more  like  a  group  of  murderers  than  people  bringing 
help  and  succour.  Some  time  had  elapsed  before  the 
means  of  transporting  him  even  to  the  nearest  house 
had  been  procured,  and  by  that  time  there  was  no 
longer  any  question  of  what  could  be  done  on  his  be- 
half, and  all  that  was  possible  was  to  carry  away  the 
body.  Dr.  Barrere  walked  beside  the  melancholy  con- 
voy to  the  nearest  police  station,  where  he  made  his 
deposition;  and  then  he  went  home  in  all  the  tremor 
of  excitement  and  mental  commotion.  He  had  fortun- 
ately no  visits  to  pay  that  evening  of  any  importance; 
but  he  was  too  much  stirred  and  troubled  to  remain 
quietly  at  home,  and  after  a  while  hurried  out  to 
Agnes,  his  natural  confidant,  to  tell  her  all  about  the 
shock  he  had  received.    It  struck  him  with  surprise  to 


122  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

see,  when  he  entered  the  little  drawing-room,  that  Jim 
was  ^vith  his  mother  and  sister.  It  was  a  thing  that 
had  very  seldom  happened  before.  He  sat  apart  from 
them  at  the  writing-table,  ^vhere  he  was  writing,  or 
making  believe  to  write,  letters.  The  sight  of  him 
struck  Dr.  Barrere  with  a  certain  surprise,  but  he 
could  not  have  told  why.  There  was  no  reason  why  he 
should  not  be  found  in  his  mother 's  drawing-room.  It 
was  true  that  he  was  rarely  to  be  seen  there,  but  yet 
sometimes  he  would  make  his  appearance.  This  even- 
ing he  had  dressed  for  dinner,  which  was  still  more 
unusual :  perhaps  he  was  going  out  to  some  late  even- 
ing party;  perhaps  some  one  had  been  expected  to  din- 
ner. These  thoughts  flew  vaguely  through  Dr.  Bar- 
rere's  mind,  he  could  not  have  told  why.  There  was 
no  particular  reason  why  he  should  thus  desire  to  pen- 
etrate the  motives  of  Jim  Surtees '  behaviour,  or  to  ex- 
plain to  himself  why  the  young  man  was  there.  The 
speculation  passed  through  his  head  \vithout  thought, 
if  such  an  expression  may  be  used,  ^vithout  any  voli- 
tion of  his,  as  half  our  thoughts  do,  like  the  chance 
flight  of  birds  or  butterflies  across  the  air.  They  did 
not  detain  him  a  moment  as  he  came  forward  with  his 
greetings,  and  met  the  pleased  surprise  of  the  recep- 
tion which  the  ladies  gave  him,  * '  I  thought  it  was  too 
late  to  look  for  you, ' '  his  Agnes  said,  with  a  brighten- 
ing of  all  the  soft  lines  of  her  face,  as  if  the  sun  had 
risen  upon  a  landscape.  And  then,  as  it  was  cold,  a 
chair  was  drawn  for  him  near  the  fire.  ''You  have 
been  kept  late  on  your  round  to-night,"  said  Mrs.  Sur- 
tees.   * '  Have  you  any  very  anxious  case  ? ' ' 

**It  is  no  case  that  has  kept  me,"  said  the  doctor. 
**I  have  had  a  dreadful  encounter  in  the  road.  You 
know  that  district  up  beyond  St.  George 's-in-the-fields 
—those  half-built,  desolate  villas  and  cottages.  The 
roads  are  as  lonely  as  if  they  were  in  the  middle  of  a 
wood,  A  new  quarter  by  night  is  as  bad  as  a  bare 
moor. ' ' 

Agnes  stood  listening  with  her  hand  on  the  back  of 


DR.  BARRERE.  123 

hia  chair,  but  still  a  smile  upon  her  face— the  smile  of 
pleasure  at  his  coming.  Mrs.  Surtees  had  let  her  knit- 
ting fall  upon  her  lap,  and  was  looking  at  him,  listen- 
ing with  pleased  interest.  They  had  not  perceived  the 
agitation  which,  indeed,  until  he  began  to  speak,  he 
had  managed  to  suppress.  "And  what  happened?" 
Mrs,  Surtees  said. 

"I  have  been,"  he  answered,  his  voice  breaking  in 
spite  of  himself,  ' '  the  witness  of  a  murder. ' ' 

* '  Good  heavens ! ' '  The  ladies  were  too  much  star- 
tled to  put  another  question  except  with  their  eager 
eyes.  They  drew  closer  to  him;  the  hand  of  Agnes 
glided  to  his  shoulder  from  the  back  of  his  chair. 
"What  she  thought  first  was  that  his  emotion  did  hon- 
our to  him. 

Then  he  described  to  them  briefly  what  he  had  seen 
—the  lurking  figure  in  the  shadow  which  had  alarmed 
himself  as  he  passed  first,  but  which  he  soon  perceived 
had  no  hostile  intentions  towards  him ;  the  appearance 
of  the  man  approaching  from  the  opposite  direction  as 
he  returned ;  the  sudden  assault ;  the  rapid,  breathless, 
horrible  suddenness  of  the  tragedy.  The  ladies  hung 
upon  his  lips,  making  exclamations  of  horror.  It  was 
not  till  afterwards  that  Dr.  Barrere  became  aware  that 
the  young  man  at  the  table  behind  made  no  sign,  said 
not  a  word.  He  had  told  everything,  and  answered 
half  a  dozen  hurried,  faltering  questions  before  Jim 
made  any  remark.  Then  he  suddenly  stirred  behind 
backs  (the  group  at  the  fireside  having  forgotten  his 
presence)  and  asked,  "What  are  you  talking  about? 
What's  happened?"  in  a  deep,  half  growling  voice,  as 
of  a  man  disturbed  in  his  occupation  by  some  fuss  of 
which  he  did  not  grasp  the  meaning. 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Surtees  wiping  her  moist  eyes, 
* '  did  you  not  hear,  Jim  ?  The  doctor  has  seen  a  mur- 
der committed.  God  preserve  us !  I  feel  as  if  I  had 
Been  it  myself.  A  dreadful  thing  like  that  coming  so 
neai  us !    It  is  as  if  we  were  mixed  up  in  it, ' '  she  said. 

"A  murder?    Are  you  sure  it  was  a  murder?    It 


124  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

might  be  nothing  more  than  a  quarrel— how  could  you 
tell  in  the  dark  ? ' '  said  Jim,  always  in  the  same  gruff, 
almost  indignant  voice. 

"If  you  had  seen  it  as  I  did  you  would  have  been  in 
no  doubt, ' '  said  Dr.  Barrere,  turning  half  round,  and 
catching  a  side  view  of  the  tall  figure  slouching  with 
hands  in  his  pockets,  his  face  clouded  with  a  scowl  of 
displeasure,  his  shoulders  up  to  his  ears.  This  sil- 
houette against  the  light  gave  him  a  thrill,  he  scarcely 
knew  why.  He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  added, 
' '  After  all  you  may  be  right ;  it  was  murder  to  all  in- 
tents and  purpose— but  whether  it  was  intended  to  be 
so  there  may  be  a  doubt. ' ' 

"You  are  always  so  ready  to  come  to  tragical  con- 
clusions, ' '  said  Jim  in  easier  tones.  * '  I  dare  say  it  will 
turn  out  to  have  been  a  quarrel,  and  no  more. ' ' 

"A  quarrel  in  which  one  is  killed  is  apt  to  look  like 
murder. ' ' 

These  words  gave  them  all  a  shivering  sensation. 
Even  Jim's  shoulders  went  up  to  his  ears  as  if  he 
shared  the  involuntary  shudder— and  Mrs.  Surtees 
said  again,  drying  her  eyes,  "  It  is  as  if  we  were  mixed 
up  in  it.  Poor  man,  poor  man,  cut  off  in  a  moment, 
without  a  thought!" 

"It  appears  that  he  is  a  well  known  and  very  bad 
character,"  said  Dr.  Barrere.  "I  feel  almost  more 
sorry  for  the  poor  wretch  that  did  it.  The  cry  he  gave 
when  he  saw  what  he  had  done  still  rings  in  my  ears." 

"Then  you  think  he  did  not  mean  it,  Arnold?" 

* '  God  knows !  You  would  have  said  he  meant  every- 
thing that  passion  and  rage  could  mean  to  see  the 
blows;  but  that  cry—" 

"He  repented,  perhaps— when  it  was  too  late." 

"It  was  horror— it  was  consternation.  It  was  the 
cry  of  a  man  who  suddenly  saw  what  he  had  done." 

There  was  a  pause  of  sympathetic  horror  and  pity. 
Then  Jim  Surtees  went  back  to  the  writing-table,  and 
Dr.  Barrere  continued  his  conversation  with  the 
ladies,  which,  however  they  tried  to  break  into  other 


DR.  BARRERE,  125 

and  happier  subjects,  returned  again  and  again  to  the 
terrible  scene  from  which  he  had  just  come.  They 
spoke  in  low  tones  together  over  the  fire— the  doctor 
recounting  over  and  over  again  the  feelings  with 
which  he  had  contemplated  the  extraordinary,  sudden 
tragedy,  the  rapidity  with  which  all  its  incidents  fol- 
lowed each  other,  leaving  him  scarcely  time  to  cry  out 
before  all  was  over.  He  was  naturally  full  of  it,  and 
could  speak  of  nothing  else,  and  his  betrothed  and  her 
mother,  always  sympathetic,  threw  themselves  entirely 
into  the  excitement  which  still  possessed  him.  It  was 
late  when  he  rose  to  go  away,  soothed  and  calmed,  and 
with  a  sense  of  having  at  last  exhausted  the  incident. 
It  startled  him  as  he  turned  round,  after  taking  leave 
of  Mrs.  Surtees,  to  see  that  Jim  was  still  there.  And 
the  aspect  of  the  young  man  was  sufficiently  remark- 
able. The  candles  on  the  writing-table  behind  which 
he  sat  had  burned  low.  They  had  escaped  from  the 
little  red  shades  which  had  been  placed  over  them, 
and  were  flaring  low,  like  a  level  sun  in  the  evening, 
upon  the  figure  behind,  which,  with  his  head  bowed 
in  his  hands  and  shoulders  up  to  his  ears,  seemed  un- 
conscious of  all  that  was  passing.  Jim  neither  saw  nor 
heard  the  doctor  move.  He  was  absorbed  in  some  all- 
important  matter  of  his  own. 

Next  day  Dr.  Barrere  was  still  deeply  occupied  by 
the  scene  he  had  seen.  He  was  summoned  for  the  cor- 
oner's inquest,  and  he  was,  as  was  natural,  questioned 
by  everybody  he  met  upon  a  subject  which  was  in  all 
men's  mouths.  It  was  equally  natural  that  he  should 
return  next  evening  to  bring  the  account  of  all  the 
encounters  he  had  gone  through  and  all  that  was  news 
on  the  subject  to  Agnes  and  her  mother.  Once  more 
he  noted  with  surprise  that  Jim  was  in  the  drawing- 
room.  Was  he  turning  over  a  new  leaf  ?  Had  he  seen 
the  folly  of  his  ways  at  last  ? 

They  were  sitting  as  before  over  the  fire,  Dr.  Bar- 
rere telling  his  story,  the  ladies  listening  with  ab- 
sorbed attention.    The  interest  of  this  terrible  tragedy 


126  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

whicli  had  taken  place  almost  within  their  kin,  which 
they  were  seeing  through  his  eyes,  was  absorbing  to 
them.  They  wanted  to  know  everything,  the  most 
minute  details,  what  questions  had  been  asked  him, 
and  what  he  had  replied.  Jim  was  still  behind  backs 
at  the  writing-table  with  the  two  candles  in  their  red 
shades,  which  did  not  betray  his  face,  but  threw  a 
strange  light  upon  his  hands  and  the  occupation  in 
which  he  seemed  to  be  absorbed.  He  was  playing  an 
old-fashioned  game  with  small  colored  glass  balls  on  a 
round  board,  called  solitaire  in  the  days  when  it  was 
in  fashion.  The  little  tinkle  of  the  balls  as  he  placed 
them  in  the  necessary  order  came  in  during  the  pauses 
in  the  talk  like  a  faint  accompaniment.  But  no  one 
looked  at  him:  they  were  too  much  absorbed  in  Dr. 
Barrere's  report. 

"And  are  you  the  only  witness,  Arnold?"  Agnes 
asked. 

"The  only  one  ^\'ho  saw  the  deed  done,"  he  said. 
* '  It  is  very  rarely  that  there  is  even  one  witness  to  the 
actual  fact  of  a  murder.  But  there  is  other  evi- 
dence than  mine;  the  man  is  supposed  to  have  been 
seen  by  various  people,  and  there  is  a  dumb  witness  of 
the  first  importance,  the  stick  which  he  must  have 
thrown  away,  or  which  dropped  from  his  hand  in  the 
horror,  as  I  shall  always  believe,  of  his  discovery  of 
what  he  had  done." 

At  this  point  there  was  a  ring  as  of  the  glass  balls 
all  tinkling  together  on  the  board.  The  doctor  turned 
round,  slightly  startled  in  the  high  tension  of  his 
nerves,  and  saw  that  Jim  had  upset  his  plaything,  and 
that  the  balls  were  rolling  about  the  table.  But  this 
was  far  from  being  an  unusual  accident  in  the  game, 
and  neither  Mrs.  Surtees  nor  Agnes  took  any  notice, 
their  nerves  were  not  strained  as  Dr.  Barrere's  had 
been.  The  mother  spoke  low  with  a  natural  thrill  of 
horror  and  pity.  "And  is  it  known,"  she  said,  "is  it 
known  to  whom  the  stick  belongs?" 

Before  Dr.  Barrere  could  reply  there  came  a  knock 


DR.  BARRERE.  127 

to  the  door— a  knock  not  at  the  door  of  the  room  in 
which  they  sat,  but  below  at  the  street  door,  a  thing 
unusual  indeed  at  that  hour,  but  not  so  startling  in 
general  as  to  excite  or  alarm  them. 

But  perhaps  all  their  nerves  were  affected  more  or 
less.  It  was  very  sudden  and  sharp,  and  came  into 
the  calm  domestic  atmosphere  with  a  scarcely  compre- 
hensible shock.  They  all  turned  round,  and  Jim,  the 
doctor  saw,  had  suddenly  risen  up,  and  stood  with  his 
face  turned  towards  the  door.  The  summons  rang 
through  the  silence  with  an  effect  altogether  out  of 
keeping  with  its  simplicity. 

''Who  can  that  be  so  late,"  said  Mrs.  Surtees. 
**Jim,  will  you  go  and  see?" 

**It  must  be  some  one  for  me,"  the  doctor  said. 

''Poor  Arnold!  I  hope  it  is  someone  near,"  said 
Agnes  faltering— for  neither  of  them  believed  what 
they  said.  It  was  something  terrible,  something  novel, 
some  startling  new  event  whatever  it  was.  Jim,  in- 
stead of  doing  as  his  mother  wished,  sat  down  again 
behind  the  writing-table,  within  the  shelter  of  the  red 
shades  on  the  candles,  and  they  all  waited,  scarcely 
venturing  to  draw  breath.  Presently  the  neat  parlor- 
maid, pale,  too,  and  with  a  visible  tremor,  opened  the 
door.  She  said,  with  a  troubled  look  at  her  mistress, 
tha;t,  "Please,  there  was  some  one  down  stairs  who 
wanted  to  speak  to  Mr.  Jim."  Mrs.  Surtees  was  the 
last  to  be  moved  by  the  general  agitation.  She  said, 
"For  Mr.  Jim?  But  let  him  come  up,  Ellen.  Jim, 
you  had  better  ask  your  friend  to  come  upstairs. ' ' 

Once  more  there  was  a  terrible,  incomprehensible 
pause.  Jim,  who  had  fallen  rather  than  re-seated  him- 
self on  the  sofa  which  stood  behind  the  writing-table, 
said  not  a  word;  his  face  was  not  visible  behind  the 
shaded  lights.  Mrs.  Surtees  threw  a  glance  round  her 
—a  troubled  appeal  for  she  knew  not  what  enlighten- 
ment. Then  she  said  breathlessly,  "What  has  hap- 
pened? What  is  the  matter?  Who  is  it?  Ellen,  you 
will  show  the  gentleman  up  stairs. ' ' 


128  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

Heavens !  How  they;  stood  listening,  panic  stricken, 
not  knowing  what  they  were  afraid  of,  nor  what  there 
was  to  fear.  Mrs.  Surtees  still  kept  her  seat  tremu- 
lously, and  Jim,  lost  in  the  corner  of  the  sofa,  sud- 
denly extinguished  the  candles— an  act  which  they  all 
seemed  to  approve  and  understand  without  knowing 
why.  And  then  there  came  a  heavy  foot  ascending  the 
stairs.  Mrs.  Surtees  did  not  know  the  man  who  came 
in— a  tall  soldierly  man  with  a  clear  and  healthful 
countenance.  It  even  gave  her  a  momemtary  sensa- 
tion of  comfort  to  see  that  Jim's  ''friend"  was  no 
blear-eyed  young  rake,  but  a  person  so  respectable. 
She  rose  to  meet  him  with  her  old-fashioned  courtesy. 
*' Though  I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  knowing  you," 
she  said  with  a  smile,  which  was  tremulous  by  reason 
of  that  causeless  agitation,  "my  son's  friends  are  al- 
ways welcome."  Oh  heaven  above!  her  son's  friend! 
Dr.  Barrere  was  the  only  one  among  them  who  knew 
the  man.  The  sight  of  him  cleared  the  whole  matter 
in  a  moment,  and  shed  a  horrible  light  over  everything 
to  the  doctor's  eyes.  He  made  a  sudden  sign  to  the 
newcomer  imploring  silence. 

*  *  I  know  this  gentleman,  too,  Mrs.  Surtees, ' '  he  said, 
**he  is  one  of  my — friends,  also.  )iVould  it  be  taking  a 
great  liberty  if  I  were  to  ask  you  to  leave  us  for  a  few 
minutes  the  use  of  this  room  ?  Agnes,  it  is  a  great  in- 
trusion—but—for God's  sake  take  her  away!"  he  said 
in  his  betrothed 's  ear. 

Mrs.  Surtees  looked  at  him  with  some  surprise  and 
an  air  of  gentle  dignity  not  entirely  without  offence. 
"My  dear,"  she  said  to  Agnes,  "Dr.  Barrere  would 
not  ask  such  a  thing  without  good  reasons  for  it,  so  let 
us  go."  She  was  not  a  woman  who  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  take  the  lead  even  in  her  own  family,  and 
she  was  glad,  glad  beyond  description,  to  believe  that 
the  business,  whatever  it  was,  was  Dr.  Barrere 's  busi- 
ness, and  not— anything  else.  She  accepted  it  with  a 
trembling  sense  of  relief,  yet  a  feeling  that  the  doctor 
was  perhaps  taking  a  little  too  much  upon  him,  turn- 
ing her  out  of  her  own  room. 


DR.  BARRERE.  1^ 

The  two  men  stood  looking  at  each  other  as  the 
ladies  went  away,  with  Jim  still  huddled  in  the  corner 
of  the  sofa,  in  the  shade,  making  no  sign.  Dr.  Barrere 
saw,  however,  that  the  stranger,  with  a  glance  round 
of  keen,  much-practised  eyes,  had  at  once  seen  him, 
and  placed  himself  between  Jim  and  the  door.  When 
the  ladies  had  disappeared  the  doctor  spoke  quickly. 
' '  Well, ' '  he  said,  * '  what  is  it,  Morton  ?  Some  new  in- 
formation ? ' ' 

"Something  I  regret  as  much  as  any  one  can.  Dr. 
Barrere.  I  have  to  ask  Mr.  Surtees  to  come  with  me. 
There  need  be  no  exposure  for  the  moment :  but  I  must 
take  him  without  delay." 

' '  Take  him ! ' '  The  doctor  made  a  last  effort  to  ap- 
pear not  to  perceive.  He  said,  "Have  you  too  seen 
something,  then  ?  Have  you  further  'evidence  to  give, 
Jim?" 

There  was  no  reply.  Neither  did  the  superinten- 
dent say  a  word.  They  stood  all  three  silent.  Jim  had 
risen  up ;  his  limbs  seemed  unable  to  support  him.  He 
stood  leaning  on  the  table,  looking  out  blankly  over 
the  two  extinguished  candles  and  their  red  shades. 
The  officer  went  up  and  laid  his  hand  lightly  upon  the 
young  man's  shoulder.  "Come,"  he  said,  "you  know 
what  I  'm  here  for :  and  I  'm  sorry,  very  sorry  for  you, 
Mr.  Jim:  but  no  doubt  you'll  be  able  to  make  it  all 
clear. ' ' 

"Barrere,"  said  Jim,  struggling  against  the  dryness 
in  his  throat,  "you  can  prove  that  I  have  not  been  out 
of  the  house— that  I  was  at  home  all  last  night.  I 
couldn't— I  couldn't,  you  know,  be  in  two  places  at 
one  time— could  I,  Barrere?" 

"Mr.  Jim,  you  must  remember  that  whatever  you 
say  now  will  tell  against  you  at  the  trial.  I  take  you  to 
witness,  doctor,  that  I  haven't  even  told  him  what  it 
was  for." 

Jim  ground  out  an  oath  from  between  his  clenched 
teeth.  "Do  I  need  to  ask?"  he  said.  "Doesn't  every- 
body know  I  hated  him— and  good  reason  too— hated 
him  and  threatened  him— but,  God  help  me,  not  to 
kill  him!"  cried  the  young  man  with  a  voice  of 
despair. 

2-9 


130  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 


CHAPTER  III. 

\t\  1^-  BARRERE  was  left  to  break  the  news  to  the 
I  ^^  J  motlier  and  daughter.    He  never  knew  how  he 
Ijt^^l  accomplished  this  dreadful  office.    They  came 
back  when  they  heard  the  door  shut,  evidently  not 
expecting  to  find  him,  believing  that  he  had  withdrawn 
with  his  "friend"— and  the  anxious,  searching  eyes 
with  which  his  Agnes  looked  around  the  room,  the 
mingled  terror  and  pleasure  of  her  look  on  discover- 
ing him,  never  faded  from  his  mind,    Mrs.  Surtees  was 
more  disappointed  than  pleased.     She  said,  with  an 
evident   sudden   awakening   of   anxiety,   "Where   is 
Jim?"    And  then  he  had  to  tell  them.    How  did  he 
find  words  to  do  it?     But  the  wonderful  thing,  the 
dreadful  thing,  was  that  after  the  shock  of  the  first 
intimation  there  seemed  little  surprise  in  the  looks  of 
these  poor  ladies.    The  mother  sank  down  in  her  chair 
and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  Agnes  stood  behind 
her  mother,  throwing  her  arms  round  her,  pressing 
that  bowed  head  against  her  breast.    They  did  not  cry 
out  indignantly  that  it  was  not— could  not  be  true. 
They  were  silent,  like  those  upon  whom  something 
long  looked  for  had  come  at  last.    The  doctor  left  them 
after  a  while  with  a  chill  in  his  very  soul.    He  could 
say  nothing ;  he  could  not  attempt  to  console  them  in 
the  awful  silence  which  seemed  to  have  fallen  upon 
them.    Agnes  tried  to  smile  as  he  went  away— tried 
with  her  trembling  lips  to  say  something.     But  she 
could  not  conceal  from  him  that  she  wished  him  to  go, 
that  he  could  give  no  comfort,  that  the  best  thing  he 
could  do  for  them  in  their  misery  was  to  leave  them 
alone.     He  went  home  very  miserable  in  that  con- 
sciousness of  being  put  aside,  and  allowed  no  share  in 
the  anguish  of  the  woman  whom  he  loved.    It  was  in- 
tolerable to  him ;  it  was  unjust.    He  said  to  himself  as 


DR.  BARRERE.  131 

he  walked  along  that  the  tacit  abandonment  of  Jim, 
the  absence  of  all  protest  on  their  part  that  his  guilt 
■was  impossible— a  protest  which  surely  a  mother  and 
sister  in  any  circumstances  ought  to  have  made— was 
hard,  was  unjust.  If  all  the  world  condemned  him, 
yet  they  should  not  have  condemned  him.  He  took 
Jim's  part  hotly,  feeling  that  he  was  a  fellow  sufferer. 
Even  were  he  dissipated  and  reckless,  poor  fellow, 
there  was  a  long,  long  way  between  that  and  murder. 
Murder !  There  was  nothing  in  Jim  which  could  make 
it  possible  that  he  could  have  to  do  with  a  murder.  If 
he  was  hasty  in  temper,  poor  fellow,  his  nature  was 
sweet,  nothwithstanding  all  his  errors.  Even  he, 
Arnold  Barrere,  a  man  contemptuous  of  the  manner  of 
folly  which  had  ruined  Jim,  a  man  with  whom  wrath 
and  revenge  might  have  awakened  more  sympathy- 
even  he  had  come  to  have  a  tenderness  for  the  erring 
young  man.  And  to  think  that  Jim  could  have  lain  in 
wait  for  any  one,  could  have  taken  a  man  at  a  disad- 
vantage, was,  he  declared  to  himself  with  indignation, 
impossible.  It  was  impossible !  though  the  two  women 
who  were  nearest  to  him— his  mother  and  his  sister- 
did  not  say  so,  did  not  stand  up  in  vindication  of  the 
unhappy  youth. 

When  he  had  exhausted  this  natural  indignation 
Dr.  Barrere  began  to  contemplate  the  situation  more 
calmly,  and  to  arrange  its  incidents  in  his  mind.  The 
horror  of  the  thought  that  he  was  himself  the  chief 
witness  affected  him  little  at  first,  for  it  was  to  the 
fact  only  that  he  could  speak,  and  the  culprit,  so  far 
as  he  was  concerned,  was  without  identity,  a  shadow 
in  the  night,  and  no  more.  But  a  chill  came  over  that 
flush  of  indignant  partisanship  with  which  he  had 
made  a  mental  stand  for  Jim  when  the  other  circum- 
stances flashed  upon  him.  He  remembered  his  own 
surprise  to  find  Jim  in  the  drawing-room  when  he  ar- 
rived at  Mrs.  Surtees'  house;  to  see  his  dress  so  un- 
usual, though  scarcely  more  unusual  than  the  fact  of 
his  being  there.    He  remembered  how  the  young  man. 


132  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

held  aloof,  how  the  candles  had  flared  upon  him 
neglected.  The  little  scene  came  before  Dr.  Barrere 
like  a  picture— the  candle  shades  standing  up  in  a 
ludicrous  neglect,  the  light  flaring  under  them  upon 
Jim's  face.  And  then  again,  to-night:  the  senseless 
game  with  which  he  seemed  to  amuse  himself;  the 
tremble  of  his  hands  over  the  plaything;  his  absence 
of  interest  in  the  matter  which  was  so  exciting  to  the 
others.  "Why  was  Jim  there  at  all?  AVliy  did  he  ask 
no  question?  Why  keep  behind  unexcited,  unsur- 
prised, while  the  doctor  told  his  story?  And  then  the 
reason  thrust  itself  upon  him  in  Jim's  own  words— "I 
couldn't  be  in  two  places  at  once,  could  I?  You  can 
prove  that  I  was  here  last  night."  Good  God,  what 
did  it  mean?  Jim— Jim!— and  his  mother  and  sister, 
who  had  sunk  into  despair  without  a  word,  who  had 
never  said  as  women  ought,  "We  know  him  better;  it 
is  not  true— it  is  not  true." 

Dr.  Barrere  went  home  more  wretched  than  words 
can  say.  Hard  and  terrible  is  an  unjust  accusation; 
but  oh,  how  easy,  how  sweet,  how  possible,  is  even  the 
shame  which  is  undeserved !  A  century  of  that  is  as 
nothing  in  comparison  with  a  day  or  hour  of  that 
which  is  merited— of  the  horror  which  is  true.  He 
tried  to  hope  still  that  it  was  not  true ;  but  he  felt  com- 
ing over  him  like  a  pall,  the  terror  which  he  could  now 
perceive  had  quenched  the  very  hearts  in  the  bosoms 
of  the  two  women  who  were  Jim's  natural  defenders. 
They  had  not  been  able  to  say  a  word— and  neither 
could  he.  Dr.  Barrere  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the 
dark  street  with  the  damp  wind  blowing  in  his  face  as 
all  this  came  before  him.  A  solitary  passer-by  looked 
round  surprised,  and  looked  again,  thinking  the  man 
was  mad.  He  saw  in  a  moment  as  by  a  revelation,  all 
that  was  before  them— and  himself.  The  horrible 
notoriety,  the  disgrace,  the  endless  stigma.  It  would 
crush  them  and  tear  their  lives  asunder :  but  for  him 
also,  would  not  that  be  ruin  too  ? 


DR.  BARRERE.  133 


CHAPTER  IV. 


*T^  HE  trial  took  place  after  a  considerable  inter- 
*•  1  val,  for  the  assizes  were  just  over  when  the  man 
W^m  was  killed.  In  that  dreadful  time  of  suspense 
and  misery  proof  after  proof  accumulated  slowly  with 
a  gradual  drawing  together  as  of  the  very  web  of 
fate.  The  stick  which  was  found  by  the  body  of  the 
murdered  man  was  Jim's  stick,  wdth  his  initials  upon 
it,  in  a  silver  band— alas,  his  mother's  gift.  He  was 
proved  to  have  had  a  desperate  quarrel  with  the  man, 
who  was  one  of  those  who  had  corrupted  and  misled 
him.  Then  the  alibi  which  had  seemed  at  first  so 
strong  disappeared  into  worse  than  nothing  when  ex- 
amined :  for  Jim  had  been  seen  on  his  flight  home ;  he 
had  been  seen  to  enter  furtively  and  noiselessly  into 
his  mother's  house,  though  the  servants  were  ready  to 
swear  that  he  had  not  gone  out  that  night ;  and  all  the 
precautions  he  had  taken,  instead  of  bringing  him 
safety,  only  made  his  position  worse,  being  shown  to  be 
precautions  consciously  taken  against  a  danger  fore- 
seen. All  these  things  grew  into  certainty  before  the 
trial;  so  that  it  was  all  a  foregone  conclusion  in  the 
minds  of  the  townspeople,  some  of  whom  yielded  to 
the  conviction  with  heartfelt  pity,  and  some  with  an 
eager  improving  of  the  situation,  pointing  out  to  what 
horrible  conclusions  vice  was  sure  to  come. 

Meanwhile  this  strange  and  horrible  event,  which 
had  held  the  town  for  more  than  nine  days  in  wonder 
and  perturbation,  and  which  had  given  a  moral  to 
many  a  tale,  and  point  to  many  a  sermon,  held  one 
little  circle  of  unhappy  creatures  as  in  a  ring  of  iron 
—unable  to  get  away  from  it,  unable  to  forget  it,  their 
hearts,  their  hopes,  their  life  itself,  marked  forever 
with  its  trace  of  blood.  The  two  ladies  had  roused 
themselves  from  their  first  stupor  into  a  half  fictitious 


131  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

adoption  of  their  natural  role  as  defenders  of  Jim. 
God  knows  through  how  many  shocks  and  horrors  of 
discovery  Jim  had  led  them,  making  something  new, 
something  worse,  always  the  thing  to  be  expected,  be- 
fore they  had  come  to  that  pitch  that  their  hearts  had 
no  power  to  make  any  protest  at  all.  But  when  the 
morning  rose  upon  their  troubled  souls  they  began  to 
say  to  each  other  that  it  could  not  be  true.  It  could 
not  be  true !  Jim  had  now  and  then  an  acces  of  sud- 
den rage,  but  he  was  the  kind  of  man  of  whom  it  is 
said  that  he  would  not  hurt  a  fly.  How  could  it  be 
possible  that  he  would  do  a  murder  ?  It  was  not  pos- 
sible ;  any  other  kind  of  evil  thing— but  not  that,  oh, 
not  that!  They  said  this  to  each  other  when  they 
rose  up  from  tlie  uneasy  bed  in  which  mother  and 
daughter  had  lain  down  together,  not  able  to  separate 
from  each  other— though  those  rules  of  use  and  wont 
which  are  so  strong  on  women  made  them  lie  down  as 
if  to  sleep,  where  no  sleep  was.  But  when  the  light 
came— that  awful  light  which  brings  back  common  life 
to  us  on  the  morning  after  a  great  calamity— they 
looked  into  each  other 's  pale  faces,  and  with  one  voice 
Baid,  '*0h  no,  no,  it  cannot  be!"  "Mother,"  cried 
Agnes,  "he  would  not  hurt  a  fly.  Oh,  how  kind  he 
was  when  I  was  ill,  when  you  had  your  accident— do 
you  remember?"  Who  does  not  know  what  these 
words  are— Do  you  remember?  All  that  he  was  who 
is  dead;  all  that  he  might  have  been  who  is  lost; 
all  the  hopes,  the  happy  prospects,  the  cheerful  days 
before  trouble  came.  No  words  more  poignant  can  be 
eaid.  They  did  not  need  to  ask  each  other  what  they 
remembered— that  was  enough.  They  clasped  each 
other,  and  kissed  with  trembling  lips,  and  then  Agnes 
rose,  bidding  her  mother  rest,  and  went  to  fetch  her 
the  woman's  cordial,  the  cup  of  tea— which  is  so  often 
all  one  poor  female  creature  can  offer  to  another  by 
way  of  help. 

No,  no,  he  could  not  have  done  it !    They  took  a  little 
comfort  for  the  moment.    And  another  strange  com- 


DR.  BARRERE.  135 

fort  tliey  took  in  a  thing  which  was  one  of  the  most 
damning  pieces  of  evidence  against  Jim:  which  was 
that  he  had  quarreled  violently  with  the  murdered 
man  and  denounced  him,  and  declared  hatred  and 
everlasting  enmity  against  him.     The   story   of   the 
quarrel  as  it  v/as  told  to  them  brought  tears,  which 
were  almost  tears  of  joy,  to  Mrs.  Surtees'  eyes.    The 
man  who  had  been  killed  was  one  of  those  adventurers 
who  haunt  the  outskirts  of  society  wherever  there  are 
victims  to  be  found.     He  had  preyed  upon  the  lives  . 
and  souls  of  young  men  in  Poolborough  since  the  days 
when  Jim  Surtees  was  an  innocent  and  credulous  boy. 
It  was  not  this  man 's  fault  that  Jim  had  gone  astray, 
for  Jim,  alas,  was  all  ready  for  his  fall,  and  eager 
after  everything  that  was  forbidden ;  but  in  the  fits  of 
remorse  and  misery  which  sometimes  came  upon  him 
it  was  perhaps  no  wonder  if  he  laid  it  at  Langton's 
door;  and  that  the  mother  should  have  held  Langton 
responsible,   who  could  wonder?     The  facts  of  the 
quarrel  were  as  so  many  nails  in  Jim's  coffin :  but  God 
help  the  poor  woman,  they  gave  consolation  to  his 
mother's  heart.    They  meant  repentance,  she  thought, 
they  meant  generosity  and  a  pathetic  indignation,  and 
more,  they  meant  succour ;  for  the  quarrel  had  arisen 
over  an  unfortunate  youth  whom  the  blackleg  was 
throwing  his  toils  around  as  he  had  thrown  them 
around  Jim,  and  whom  Mrs,  Surtees  believed  Jim  had 
saved  by  exposing  the  villain.    The  story  was  told  re- 
luctantly, delicately,  to  the  poor  ladies,  as  almost  seal- 
ing Jim's  fate:  and  to  the  consternation  of  the  narra- 
tor, who  was  struck  dumb,  and  could  only  stare  at  them 
in  a  kind  of  stupor  of  astonishment,  they  looked  at  each 
other  and  broke  forth  into  cries  at  first  inarticulate 
which  were  almost  cries  of  joy.    "You  do  not  see  the 
bearing  of  it,  I  fear,"  said  the  solicitor  who  had  the 
management  of  the  case,  as  soon  as  out  of  his  aston- 
ishment he  had  recovered  his  voice.    "Oh  sir,"  cried 
Mrs.  Surtees,  "what  I  see  is  this,  that  my  boy  has 
saved  another  poor  woman's  son,  God  bless  him!  and 


136  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

ttat  will  not  be  forgotten,  that  will  not  be  forgotten ! " 
This  gentleman  withdrew  in  a  state  of  speechless  con- 
sternation. "No,  it  will  not  be  forgotten,"  he  said  to 
Dr.  Barrere.  "I  think  the  poor  lady  has  gone  out  of 
her  senses,  and  little  wonder.  It  is  a  piece  of  evidence 
which  we  can  never  get  over. ' '  Dr.  Barrere  shook  his 
head,  not  understanding  the  women  much  better  than 
the  lawyer  did.  This  gave  them  consolation,  and  yet 
it  was  the  seal  of  Jim's  fate. 

Dr.  Barrere  himself  in  the  long  period  of  waiting 
was  a  most  unhappy  man.  He  stood  by  the  Surtees 
nobly,  everybody  said.  No  son  could  have  been  more 
attentive  than  he  was  to  the  poor  mother  who  was  en- 
tirely broken  by  this  blow,  and  had  suddenly  become 
an  old  woman.  And  he  never  wavered  in  his  faith 
and  loyalty  to  Agnes,  who  but  for  that  noble  fidelity 
would,  everybody  said,  have  been  the  most  of  all  to  be 
pitied.  For  Agnes  was  young,  and  had  all  her  life 
before  her,  with  the  stain  of  this  crime  upon  her  name ; 
and  if  her  lover  had  not  stood  by  her  what  would  have 
become  of  her?  The  people  who  had  been  doubtful  of 
Dr.  Barrere,  as  half  a  Frenchman,  as  too  great  a  theor- 
ist, as  a  man  who  had  not  been  quite  successful  in  his 
outset,  began  now  to  look  upon  him  with  increased 
respect,  and  his  firmness,  his  high  honour,  his  disinter- 
estedness were  commented  upon  on  all  sides.  But  in 
his  heart  the  doctor  was  far  from  happy.  His  life, 
too,  seemed  in  question  as  well  as  Jim 's.  If  the  worst 
came  to  the  worst,  he  asked  himself,  would  society, 
however  sympathetic  for  the  moment,  receive  the  fam- 
ily of  a  man  who  had  been  hanged— horrible  words  !— 
without  prejudice  ?  AVould  there  not  be  a  stigma  upon 
the  name  of  Surtees,  and  even  upon  the  name  of  him 
who  had  given  his  own  as  a  shield  to  the  family  of  the 
murderer  1  He  did  his  duty— no  man  more  truly.  He 
loved  his  Agnes  with  all  the  warmth  of  an  honest 
heart,  taking  his  share  of  all  her  trouble,  supporting 
her  through  everything,  making  himself  for  her  sake 
the  brother  of  a  criminal,  and  one  of  the  objects  of 


DR.  BARRERE.  137 

popular  curiosity  and  pity.  All  this  lie  did  from  day 
to  day,  and  went  on  doing  it:  but  still  there  were 
struggles  and  dreadful  misgivings  in  Dr.  Barrere's 
heart.  He  was  a  proud  man,  and  except  for  what  he 
made  by  his  profession  a  poor  one.  If  that  failed  him 
he  had  nothing  else  to  fall  back  upon,  and  he  already 
knew  the  misery  of  unsuccess.  He  knew  what  it  was 
to  see  his  practice  wasting  away,  to  see  his  former 
patients  pass  by  shamefacedly,  conscious  of  having 
transferred  their  ailments  and  themselves  to  other 
hands,  to  be  put  aside  for  no  expressed  reason  out  of 
the  tide  of  life.  At  Poolborough  he  had  begun  to  for- 
get the  experiences  of  his  beginning,  and  to  feel  that 
at  last  he  had  got  hold  of  the  thread  which  would  lead 
him  if  not  to  fortune,  at  least  to  comfort  and  the  cer- 
tainties of  an  established  course  of  living.  "Would  this 
last  ?  he  asked  himself.  Would  it  make  no  difference 
to  him  if  he  identified  himself  with  ruin— ruin  so  hid- 
eous and  complete  ?  The  question  was  a  terrible  one, 
and  brought  the  sweat  to  his  brow  when  in  chance 
moments,  between  his  visits  and  his  cases,  between  the 
occupations  and  thoughts  which  absorbed  him,  now 
and  tjhen,  suddenly,  in  spite  of  all  the  pains  he  took,  it 
would  start  up  and  look  him  in  the  face.  ' '  He  had  a 
brotlher  who  was  hanged, ' '  that  was  what  people  would 
say;  they  would  not  even  after  a  little  lapse  of  time 
pause  to  recollect  that  it  was  his  wife's  brother.  The 
brand  would  go  with  them  wherever  he  went.  *'You 
remember  the  great  murder  case  in  Poolborough? 
"Well,  these  were  the  people,  and  the  brother  was 
hanged."  These  words  seemed  to  detach  themselves 
and  float  in  the  air.  He  said  them  to  himself  some- 
times, or  rather  they  were  said  in  his  ear,  without  any- 
thing else  to  connect  them.  The  phrase  seemed  al- 
ready a  common  phrase  which  any  one  might  use— 
"The  brother  was  hanged."  And  then  cold  drops  of 
moisture  would  come  out  upon  his  forehead.  And  all 
the  possibilities  of  life,  the  success  which  is  dear  to  a 
man,  the  advancement  of  which  he  knew  himself  capa- 


133  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

ble— was  it  all  to  go?  Was  he  to  be  driven  back  ouce 
more  to  that  everlasting  re-commencement  which 
makes  the  heart  of  a  man  sick? 

These  thoughts  accompanied  Dr.  Barrere  as  he 
went  and  came,  a  son,  and  more  than  a  son,  to  Mrs. 
Surtees,  and  to  Agnes  the  most  faithful,  the  most 
sympathetic  of  lovers.  At  such  a  moment,  and  in  face 
of  the  awful  catastrophe  which  had  come  upon  them, 
any  talk  of  marriage  would  have  been  out  of  place. 
He  had,  indeed,  suggested  it  at  first  in  mingled  alarm 
and  desperation,  and  true  desire  to  do  his  best,  in  the 
first  impulse  of  overwhelming  sympathy,  and  at  the 
same  time  in  the  first  glimpse  of  all  that  might  follow, 
and  sickening  horror  of  self -distrust  lest  his  resolu- 
tion might  give  way.  He  would  have  fled  from  him- 
self, from  all  risks  of  this  nature  into  the  safety  of  a 
bond  which  he  could  not  break.  But  Agnes  had 
silently  negatived  the  proposal  with  a  shake  of  her 
head  and  a  smile  of  pathetic  tenderness.  She,  too,  had 
thoughts  of  the  future,  of  which  she  breathed  no  word 
to  any  one,  not  even  to  her  mother.  All  that  was  in 
his  mind  as  subject  of  alarm  and  misgiving  was  re- 
flected, with  that  double  clearness  and  vivification 
which  is  given  to-  everything  reflected  in  the  clear  flow- 
ing of  a  river,  in  the  mind  of  Agnes.  She  saw  all  with 
the  distinctness  of  one  to  whom  the  sacrifice  of  herself 
was  nothing  when  compared  with  the  welfare  of  those 
she  loved.  He  was  afraid  lest  these  alarms  might 
bring  him  into  temptation,  and  the  temptation  be 
above  his  strength;  and  his  soul  was  disturbed  and 
made  miserable.  But  to  Agnes  the  matter  took  an- 
other aspect.  All  that  he  foresaw  she  foresaw,  but  the 
thought  brought  neither  disturbance  nor  fear.  It 
brought  the  exaltation  of  a  great  purpose— the  solemn 
joy  of  approaching  martyrdom.  Arnold  should  never 
suffer  for  her.  It  w^as  she  who  would  have  the  better 
part  and  suffer  for  him. 

The  dreadful  fact  that  it  was  Dr.  Barrere  only  who 
had  witnessed  the  murder,  and  that  he  would  have  to 


DR.  BARRERE.  139 

speak  and  prove  \Vliat  he  had  seen,  became  more  and 
more  apparent  to  them  all  as  the  time  drew  on.  His 
description  of  the  blows  that  had  been  rained  down 
wildly  on  the  victim,  and  of  the  lurking  figure  in  the 
shadow  whom  he  had  noted,  as  he  passed  the  first  time, 
took  away  all  hope  that  it  might  be  supposed  the  act 
of  a  momentary  madness  without  premeditation.  The 
doctor  had  told  his  story  with  all  the  precision  that 
was  natural  to  him  before  he  knew  who  it  was  that 
would  be  convicted  by  it;  and  now  it  was  no  longer 
possible  for  him,  even  had  his  conscience  permitted  it, 
to  soften  the  details  which  he  had  at  first  given  so 
clearly,  or  to  throw  any  mist  upon  his  clear  narrative. 
He  had  to  repeat  it  all,  knowing  the  fatal  effect  it  must 
have,  standing  up  with  Jim's  pale  face  before  him, 
with  a  knowledge  that  somewhere  in  a  dim  corner 
Agnes  sat  with  bowed  head  listening— to  what  she 
already  knew  so  well.  The  doctor's  countenance  was 
as  pale  as  Jim's.  His  mouth  grew  dry  as  he  bore  his 
testimony ;.  but  not  all  the  terrible  consequences  could 
make  him  alter  a  word.  He  could  scarcely  refrain  a 
groan,  a  sob,  when  he  had  done ;  and  this  involuntary 
evidence  of  what  it  cost  him  to  tell  the  truth  increased 
the  effect  in  the  highest  degree,  as  the  evidence  of  an 
unwilling  witness  always  does.  There  was  but  one 
point  in  which  he  could  help  the  prisoner;  and  for- 
tunately that  too  had  been  a  special  point  in  his  prev- 
ious evidence :  but  it  was  not  until  Dr.  Barrere  got  into 
the  hands  of  Jim's  advocate  that  this  was  brought  out. 
"I  see,"  the  counsel  said,  ''that  in  your  previous 
examination  you  speak  of  a  cry  uttered  by  the  assail- 
ant after  the  blows  which  you  have  described.  You 
describe  it  as  a  cry  of  horror.  In  what  sense  do  you 
mean  this  to  be  understood  ? ' ' 

^'I  -mean,"  said  Dr.  Barrere  very  pointedly  and 
clearly— and  if  there  had  been  any  divided  attention 
in  the  crowded  court  where  so  many  people  had  come 
to  hear  the  fate  of  one  whom  they  had  known  from 
his  childhood,  every  mind  was  roused  now,  and  every 


140  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

eye  intent  upon  the  speaker—* '  I  mean— ' '    He  paused 
to  give  fuller  f orca  to  what  lie  said. 

"I  mean  that  the  man  who  struck  those  blows  for 
the  first  time  realised  what  he  was  doing.  The  cry 
was  one  of  consternation  and  dismay.  It  was  the  cry 
of  a  man  horrified  to  see  what  he  had  done. ' ' 

"The.  cry  was  so  remarkable  that  it  made  a  great 
impression  on  your  mind  ? ' ' 

**A  very  great  impression.  I  do  not  think  I  have 
ever  heard  an  utterance  which  affected  me  so  much." 

**Tou  were  hurrying  forward  at  the  time  to  inter- 
pose in  the  scuffle.  Did  you  distinguish  any  words? 
Did  you  recognise  the  voice?" 

"It  would  give  an  erroneous  impression  to  say  that 
I  meant  to  interpose  in  the  scuffle.  There  was  no 
scuffle.  The  man  fell  at  once.  He  never  had  a  chance 
of  defending  himself.  I  did  not  recognise  the  voice, 
nor  can  I  say  that  any  words  were  used.  It  was  noth- 
ing but  a  cry." 

"The  cry,  however,  was  of  such  a  nature  as  to 
induce  you  to  change  your  mind  in  respect  to  what 
had  occurred?" 

"I  had  no  time  to  form  any  theory.  The  impres- 
sion it  produced  on  my  mind  was  that  an  assault  was 
intended,  but  not  murder ;  and  that  all  at  once  it  had 
become  apparent  to  the  unfortunate—"  Here  the 
doctor  paused,  and  there  was  a  deep  sobbing  breath  of 
intense  attention  drawn  by  the  crowd.  He  stopped 
for  a  minute,  and  then  resumed,  "It  had  become 
apparent  to  the— assailant  that  he  had— gone  too  far; 
that  the  consequences  were  more  terrible  than  he  had 
intended.  He  threw  down  what  he  had  in  his  hand, 
and  fled  in  horror. ' ' 

*  *  You  were  convinced,  then,  that  there  was  no  mur- 
derous intention  in  the  act  of  the  unfortunate— as 
you  have  well  said— assailant?" 

"That  was  my  conviction,"  said  Dr.  Barrere. 

The  effect  made  upon  the  assembly  was  great.  And 
though  it  was  no  doubt  diminished  more  or  less  by  the 


DR.  BARRERE.  141 

cross-examination  of  the  counsel  for  the  prosecution, 
v/ho  protested  vehemently  against  the  epithet  of  un- 
fortunate applied  to  the  man  who  had  attacked  in  the 
dark  another  man  who  was  proceeding  quietly  about 
his  own  business,  who  had  lain  in  wait  for  him  and 
assaulted  him  murderously  with  every  evidence  of  pre- 
meditation, it  still  remained  the  strongest  point  in  the 
defence.  "You  say  that  you  had  no  time  to  form  any 
theory?"  said  the  prosecutor;  *'yet  you  have  told 
us  that  you  rushed  forward  calling  out  murder.  Waa 
this  before  or  after  you  heard  the  cry,  so  full  of 
meaning,  which  you  have  described?" 

"It  was  probably  almost  at  the  same  moment,"  said 
Dr.  Barrere. 

"Yet,  even  in  the  act  of  crying  out  murder,  you 
were  capable  of  noticing  all  the  complicated  senti- 
ments which  you  now  tell  us  were  in  the  assailant's 
cry!" 

"In  great  excitement  one  takes  no  notice  of  the 
passage  of  time— a  minute  contains  as  much  as  an 
hour." 

"And  you  expect  us  to  believe  that  in  that  minute, 
and  without  the  help  of  words,  you  were  enlightened 
as  to  the  meaning  of  the  act  by  a  mere  inarticulate 
cry?" 

"I  tell  you  the  impression  produced  on  my  mind, 
as  I  told  it  at  the  coroner's  inquest,"  said  Dr.  Barrere, 
steadily;  "as  I  have  told  it  to  my  friends  from  the 
first." 

"Yet  this  did  not  prevent  you  from  shouting  mur- 
der?" 

"No;  it  did  not  prevent  me  from  calling  for  help 
in  the  usual  way. ' ' 

This  was  all  that  could  be  made  of  the  doctor. 
It  remained  the  strongest  point  in  poor  Jim's  favour, 
who  was,  as  everybody  saw  to  be  inevitable,  con- 
demned; yet  recommended  to  mercy  because  of  what 
Dr.  Barrere  had  said.  Otherwise  there  were  many 
features  in  the  case  that  roused  the  popular  pity. 


142  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP, 

The  bad  character  of  the  man  who  had  been  killed, 
the  evil  influence  he  was  known  to  have  exercised,  the 
injury  he  had  done  to  Jim  himself  and  to  so  many 
others,  and  the  very  cause  of  the  quarrel  in  which 
Jim  had  threatened  and  announced  his  intention  of 
punishing  him— all  these  things,  had  Jim  been  tried 
in  France,  would  have  produced  a  verdict  modified  by 
extenuating  circumstances.  In  England  it  did  not 
touch  the  decision,  but  it  produced  that  vague  recom- 
mendation to  mercy  with  which  pity  satisfies  itself 
when  it  can  do  no  more. 

Dr.  Barrere  took  the  unfortunate  mother  and  sister 
home.  Mrs,  Surtees,  broken  as  she  was,  could  not  be 
absent  from  the  court  when  her  son's  fate  was  to  be 
determined.  She  was  as  one  stricken  dumb  as  they 
took  her  back.  Now  and  then  she  would  put  her  trem- 
bling hands  to  her  eyes  as  if  expecting  tears  which 
did  not  come.  Her  very  heart  and  soul  were  crushed 
by  the  awful  doom  which  had  been  spoken.  And  the 
others  did  not  even  dare  to  exchange  a  look.  The 
horror  which  enveloped  them  was  too  terrible  for 
speech.  It  was  only  after  an  interval  had  passed,  and 
life,  indomitable  life  w^hich  always  rises  again  what- 
ever may  be  the  anguish  that  subdues  it  for  a  mo- 
ment, had  returned  in  pain  and  fear  to  its  struggle 
with  the  intolerable,  that  words  and  the  power  of  com- 
munication returned.  Then  Dr .  Barrere  told  the 
broken-hearted  women  that  both  he  himself  and  others 
in  the  town  who  knew  Jim,  with  all  the  influence  that 
could  be  brought  to  bear,  would  work  for  a  revision 
of  the  sentence.  It  was  upon  his  own  evidence  that 
the  hopes  which  those  who  were  not  so  deeply,  tre- 
mendoiisly  interested,  but  who  regarded  the  case  with 
an  impartial  eye,  began  to  entertain,  were  founded. 
"I  hope  that  the  Home  Secretary  may  send  for  me,'* 
he  said;  "they  think  he  will.  God  grant  it!"  He 
too  had  worked  himself  into  a  kind  of  hope. 

"Oh,"  said  Agnes,  melting  for  the  first  time  into 
tears  at  the  touch  of  a  possible  deliverance,  "if  we 


DR.  BARRERE.  143 

could  go,  as  they  used  to  do,  to  the  Queen,  Ms  mother 
and  his  sister,  on  our  knees ! ' ' 

Mrs.  Surtees  sat  and  listened  to  them  with  her  im- 
movable face  of  misery.  ^' Don't  speak  to  me  of  hope, 
for  I  cannot  bear  it,"  she  said.  "Oh,  don't  speak  of 
hope ;  there  is  none— none !  Nothing  but  death  and 
shame." 

"Yes,  mother,"  said  Dr.  Barrere,  and  he  added  un- 
der his  breath,"  whatever  happens— whatever  hap- 
pens—there shall  be  no  death  of  shame." 


144  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 


CHAPTER  V. 


^T^  HE  recommendation  to  mercy  was  very  strong ; 
^^1*  I  almost  all  the  principal  people  in  the  town 
^Eg|  interested  themselves,  and  the  judge  himself 
had  been  persuaded  to  add  a  potent  word ;  but  as  he 
did  so  he  shook  his  head,  and  told  the  petitioners  that 
their  arguments  were  all  sentimental.  "What  does 
your  lordship  say  then  to  the  doctor's  testimony?" 
was  asked  him,  upon  which  he  shook  his  head  more 
and  more.  "The  doctor's  testimony,  above  all,"  he 
said.  "Mind  you,  I  think  that  probably  the  doctor 
was  right,  but  it  is  not  a  solid  argument,  it  is  all  senti- 
ment ;  and  that  is  what  the  Home  Office  makes  no  ac- 
count of."  This  was  very  discouraging.  But  still 
there  was  a  certain  enthusiasm  in  the  town  in  Jim's 
favour,  as  well  as  a  natural  horror  that  one  who  really 
belonged  (if  he  had  kept  his  position)  to  the  best 
class,  should  come  to  such  an  end ;  and  the  chief  people 
who  got  up  this  recommendation  to  mercy  were  warm 
supporters  of  the  Government.  That,  too,  they  felt 
convinced  must  tell  for  something.  And  there  reigned 
in  Poolborough  a  certain  hope  which  Dr.  Barrere 
sometimes  shared. 

Sometimes;  for  on  many  occasions  he  took  the 
darker  view— the  view  so  universal  and  generally  re- 
ceived, that  the  more  important  it  is  for  you  that  a 
certain  thing  should  come  to  pass,  the  more  you  desire 
it,  the  less  likely  it  is  to  happen.  And  then  he  would 
ask  himself  was  it  so  important  that  it  should  come 
to  pass?  At  the  best  it  was  still  true  that  Jim  had 
killed  this  man.  If  he  were  not  hanged  for  it  he  would 
be  imprisoned  for  life;  and  whether  it  is  worse  to 
have  a  relative  who  has  been  hanged  for  a  crime  or 
one  who  is  lingering  out  a  long  term  of  imprisonment 
for  it,  it  is  hard  to  tell.    There  did  not  seem  much  to 


DR.  BARRERE.  145 

choose  between  them.  Perhaps  even  the  hanging 
would  be  forgotten  soonest— and  it  would  be  less  of  a 
burden.  For  to  think  of  a  brother  in  prison,  who 
might  emerge  years  hence  with  a  ticket-of-leave,  a  dis- 
graced and  degraded  man,  was  something  terrible. 
Perhaps  on  the  whole  it  would  be  best  that  he  should 
die.  And  then  Dr.  Barrere  shuddered.  Die !  Ah !  if 
that  might  be,  quietly,  without  demonstration.  But  as 
it  was—  And  then  he  would  begin  again,  against 
his  will,  that  painful  circle  of  thought— "the  brother 
was  hanged."  That  was  what  people  would  say. 
After  the  horror  of  it  had  d-ed  out  fantastic  patients 
would  cry,  "The  brother  of  a  man  who  was  hanged! 
Oh,  no!  don't  let  us  call  in  such  a  person."  The 
ladies  would  say  this:  they  would  shudder  yet  per- 
haps even  laugh,  for  the  pity  would  be  forgotten,  even 
the  horror  would  be  forgotten,  and  there  would  remain 
only  this  suggestion  of  discomfort— just  enough  to 
make  the  women  feel  that  they  would  not  like  to  have 
him,  the  brother  of  a  man  who  was  hanged,  for  their 
doctor.  Dr.  Barrere  tried  all  he  could  to  escape  from 
this  circle  of  fatal  thought;  but  however  hard  he 
worked,  and  however  much  he  occupied  himself,  he 
could  not  do  so  always.  And  the  thought  went  near 
sometimes  to  make  him  mad. 

He  had,  however,  much  to  occupy  him,  to  keep 
thought  away.  He  was  the  only  element  of  comfort 
in  the  life  of  the  two  miserable  women  who  lived 
under  the  shadow  of  death,  their  minds  entirely  ab- 
sorbed in  the  approaching  catastrophe,  living  through 
it  a  hundred  times  in  anticipation,  in  despair  which 
was  made  more  ghastly  and  sickening  by  a  flicker  of 
terrible  hope.  Mrs.  Surtees  said  that  she  had  no  hope ; 
she  would  not  allow  the  possibility  to  be  named;  but 
secretly  dwelt  upon  it  with  an  intensity  of  suspense 
which  was  more  unendurable  than  any  calamity.  And 
when  Agnes  and  her  lover  were  alone  this  was  the  sub- 
ject that  occupied  them  to  the  exclusion  of  all  others. 
Their  own  hopes  and  prospects  were  all  blotted  out 

2—10 


146  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

as  if  they  had  never  been.  He  brought  her  reports 
of  what  was  said,  and  what  was  thought  on  the  sub- 
ject among  the  people  who  had  influence,  those  who 
were  straining  every  nerve  to  obtain  a  reprieve:  and 
she  hung  upon  his  words  breathless  with  an  all-ab- 
Borbing  interest.  He  never  got  beyond  the  awful 
shadow,  or  could  forget  it,  and  went  about  all  day 
with  that  cloud  hanging  over  him,  and  frightened  his 
patients  with  his  stern  and  serious  looks.  ''Dr.  Bar- 
rere  is  not  an  encouraging  doctor,"  they  began  to 
say,  "he  makes  you  think  you  are  going  to  die;"  for 
the  sick  people  could  not  divest  themselves  of  the  idea 
that  it  was  their  complaints  that  were  foremost  in  the 
doctor's  mind  and  produced  that  severity  in  his  looks. 
But  all  this  was  light  and  easy  to  the  last  of  the 
many  occupations  which  filled  Dr.  Barrere's  time  and 
thoughts,  and  that  was  Jim— Jim  alone  in  his  prison, 
he  who  never  had  been  alone,  who  had  been  sur- 
rounded all  day  long  with  his  companions— the  com- 
panions who  had  led  him  astray.  No,  they  had  not 
led  him  astray.  Langton,  who  was  dead,  whom 
he  had  killed,  had  not  led  him  astray,  though  he  now 
thought  so,  or  said  so,  bemoaning  himself.  Such  a 
thing  would  be  too  heavy  a  burden  for  any  human 
spirit.  A  man  cannot  ruin  any  more  than  he  can  save 
his  brother.  His  own  inclinations,  his  own  will,  his 
love  for  the  forbidden,  his  idle  wishes  and  follies— 
these  were  what  had  led  him  astray.  And  now  he 
was  left  alone  to  think  of  all  that,  with  the  shadow 
before  him  of  a  hideous  death  at  a  fixed  moment— a 
moment  drawing  nearer  and  nearer,  which  he  could 
no  more  escape  than  he  could  forget  it.  Jim  had  many 
good  qualities  amid  his  evil  ones.  He  was  not  a  bad 
man;  his  sins  were  rather  those  of  a  foolish,  self- 
indulgent  boy.  His  character  was  that  of  a  boy.  A 
certain  innocency,  if  that  word  may  be  used,  lay  un- 
der the  surface  of  his  vices,  and  long  confinement 
Bway  from  all  temptation  had  wrought  a  change  in 
him  like  that  that  came  over  the  leper  in  the  Scrip- 


DR.  BARRERE.  U7 

tures,  whose  flesh  came  again  as  the  flesh  of  a  little 
child.  This  was  what  happened  to  Jim,  both  bodily 
and  mentally.  He  languished  in  health  from  his  con- 
finement, but  yet  his  eyes  regained  the  clearness  of 
his  youth,  and  his  mind,  all  its  ingenuousness,  its 
power  of  affection.  Lying  under  sentence  of  death 
he  became  once  more  the  lovable  human  creature,  the 
•Running  and  attractive  youth  he  had  been  in  the  days 
before  trouble  came.  All  clouds  save  the  one  cloud 
rolled  off  his  soul.  In  all  likelihood  he  himself  forgot 
the  course  of  degradation  through  which  he  had  gone ; 
everything  was  obliterated  to  him  by  the  impossibility 
of  sinning  more— everything  except  the  one  thing 
which  no  self-delusion  could  obliterate,  the  unchange- 
able doom  to  which  he  was  approaching  day  by  day. 
Jim  had  none  of  the  tremors  of  a  murderer.  He  con- 
cealed nothing;  he  admitted  freely  that  the  verdict 
was  just,  that  it  was  he  who  had. lurked  in  the  dark 
and  awaited  the  villain— but  only  he  had  never  meant 
more  than  to  punish  him,  "It  is  all  quite  true  what 
the  doctor  says.  I  knocked  him  down.  I  meant  to 
beat  him  within  an  inch  of  his  life.  God  knows  if 
he  deserved  it  at  my  hands,  or  any  honest  man's 
hands.  And  then  it  came  over  me  in  a  moment  that 
he  never  moved,  that  he  never  made  a  struggle.  It 
was  not  because  there  were  people  coming  up  that  I 
ran  away.  It  was  horror,  as  the  doctor  say^.  Noth- 
ing can  ever  happen  to  me  again  so  dreadful  as  that,'* 
said  Jim,  putting  up  his  handkerchief  to  wipe  hiai 
damp  forehead.  And  yet  he  could  tell  even  that  story 
with  tolerable  calm.  He  was  not  conscious  of  guilt; 
he  had  meant  to  do  what' 'he  felt  quite  justifiable— 
rather  laudable  than  otherwise— to-  thrash  a  rascal 
"within  an  inch  of  his  life."  He  had  expected  the 
man  to  defend  himself;  he  had  been  full  of  what  he 
felt  to  be  righteous  rage,  and  he  did  not  feel  himself 
guilty  now.  He  was  haunted  by  no  ghost;  he  had 
ceased  even  to  shudder  at  the  recollection  of  the  hor- 
rible moment  in  which  he  became  aware  that  instead 


148  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

of  chastising  lie  had  killed.  But  when  his  momentary 
occupation  with  other  thoughts  died  away  and  the  rec- 
ollection of  what  lay  before  him  came  back,  the  con- 
dition of  poor  Jim  was  a  dreadful  one.  To  die— for 
that!— to  die  on  Thursday,  the  3rd  of  September,  at 
8  horrible  moment  fixed  and  unchangeable.  To  feel 
the  days  running  past  remorselessly,  swift,  without  an 
event  to  break  their  monotonous  flying  pace— those 
days  which  were  so  endlessly  long  from  dawn  to  twi- 
light, which  seemed  as  if  they  would  never  be  done, 
which  had  so  little  night,  yet  which  flew  noiselessly, 
silently,  bringing  him  ever  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
end.  Poor  Jim  broke  down  entirely  under  the  pres- 
Bure  of  this  intolerable  certainty.  Had  it  been  done 
at  once,  the  moment  the  sentence  had  been  pro- 
nounced ;  but  to  sit  and  wait  for  it,  look  for  it,  antici- 
pate it,  know  that  every  hour  was  bringing  it  nearer, 
that  through  the  dark  and  through  the  day,  and 
through  all  the  endless  circles  of  thoughts  that  sur- 
mounted and  surrounded  it,  it  was  coming,  always 
coming,  not  to  be  escaped!  Jim's  nerves  broke  down 
under  this  intolerable  thing  that  had  to  be  borne. 
He  kept  command  of  himself  when  he  saw  his  mother 
and  sister,  but  with  Dr.  Barrere  he  let  himself  go. 
It  was  a  relief  to  him  for  the  wretched  moment.  Save 
for  the  moment,  nothing,  alas,  could  be  a  relief— for 
whether  he  contrived  to  smile  and  subdue  himself,  or 
■whether  he  dashed  himself  against  the  wall  of  impos- 
sibility that  shut  him  in,  whether  he  raved  in  anguish 
or  madness,  or  slept,  or  tried  to  put  a  brave  face  upon 
it,  it  was  coming  all  the  time. 

*'It  is  sitting  and  waiting  that  is  the  horrible 
thing,"  he  said;  "to  think  there  is  nothing  you  can 
do.  That's  true,  you  know,  doctor,  in  Don  Juan, 
about  the  people  that  plunged  into  the  sea  to  get 
drowned  a  little  sooner  and  be  done  with  it— in  the 
shipwreck,  you  know.  It's  waiting  and  seeing  it  com- 
ing that  is  horrible.  It  is  just  thirteen  days  today. 
Death  isn't  what  I  mind!  it's  waiting  for  it.    Will  it 


DR.  BARRERE.  149 

be— will  it  be  very— horrible,  do  you  think— at  the 
moment— when  it  comes?" 

"No,"  said  Dr.  Barrere,  "if  it  comes  to  that,  not 
horrible  at  all— a  moment,  no  more." 

"A  moment— but  you  can't  tell  till  you  try  what 
may  be  in  a  moment.  I  don't  mind,  doctor;  some- 
thing sharp  and  soon  would  be  a  sort  of  relief.  It  is 
the  sitting  and  waiting,  counting  the  days,  seeing  it 
coming— always  coming.  Nobody  has  a  right  to  tor- 
ture a  fellow  like  that— let  them  take  him  and  hang 
him  as  the  lynchers  do,  straight  off. ' '  Then  Jim  was 
seized  with  a  slight  convulsive  shudder,  "And  then 
the  afterwards,  doctor?  for  all  your  science  you  can't 
tell  anything  about  that.  Perhaps  you  don't  believe 
in  it  at  all.    I  do." 

Dr.  Barrere  made  no  reply.  He  was  not  quite  clear 
about  what  he  believed;  and  he  had  nothing  to  say 
on  such  a  subject  to  this  young  man  standing  upon 
the  verge,  with  all  the  uncertainties  and  possibilities 
of  life  still  so  warm  in  him,  and  yet  so  near  the  one 
unalterable  certainty.    After  a  minute  Jim  resumed. 

"  I  do, "  he  said  firmly.  "  I  've  never  been  what  you 
call  a  skeptic.  I  don't  believe  men  are :  they  only  pre- 
tend, or  perhaps  think  so,  till  it  comes  upon  them. 
I  wonder  what  they'll  say  to  a  poor  fellow  up  there, 
doctor?  I've  always  been  told  they  understand  up 
there — there  can't  be  injustice  done  like  here.  And 
I  've  always  been  a  true  believer.  I  've  never  been  led 
away— like  that." 

"It  isn't  a  subject  on  which  I  can  talk,"  said  the 
doctor,  unsteadily;  "your  mother  and  Agnes,  they 
know.  But,  Jim,  for  the  love  of  God  don't  talk  to 
them  as  you  are  doing  now.  Put  on  a  good  face  for 
their  sakes." 

"Poor  mother!"  said  Jim,  He  turned  all  at  once 
almost  to  crying— softened  entirely  out  of  his  wild 
talk.  "What  has  she  done  to  have  a  thing  like  this 
happen  to  her?  She  is  a  real  good  woman— and  to 
have  a  son  hanged,  good  Lord!"    Again  he  shivered 


150  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

convulsively.  "She  won't  live  long,  that's  one  thing; 
and  perhaps  it'll  be  explained  to  her  satisfaction  up 
there.  But  that's  what  I  call  unjust,  Barrere,  to  tor- 
ture a  poor  soul  like  that,  that  has  never  done  any- 
thing but  good  all  her  life.  You'll  take  care  of  Agnes. 
But  mother  will  not  live  long,  poor  dear.  Poor  dear ! '  * 
he  repeated  with  a  tremulous  smile.  "I  suppose  she 
had  a  happy  life  till  I  grew  up— till  I— I  wonder 
•what  I  could  be  born  for,  a  fellow  like  me,  to  be 
hanged!"  he  cried  with  a  sudden,  sharp  anguish  in 
which  there  was  the  laughter  of  misery  and  the  groan 
of  despair. 

Dr.  Barrere  left  the  prison  with  his  heart  bleeding ; 
but  he  did  not  abandon  Jim.  On  the  contrary,  there 
was  a  terrible  attraction  which  drew  him  to  the  pres- 
ence of  the  unfortunate  young  man.  The  doctor  of 
Poolborough  jail,  though  not  so  high  in  the  profession 
as  himself,  was  one  of  Dr.  Barrere 's  acquaintances, 
and  to  him  he  went  when  he  left  the  condemned  cell. 
The  doctor  told  his  professional  brother  that  Surteea 
was  in  a  very  bad  state  of  health.  "His  nerves  have 
broken  down  entirely.  His  heart— haven't  you  re- 
marked?—his  heart  is  in  such  a  state  that  he  might 
go  at  any  moment. ' ' 

"Dear  me,"  said  the  other,  "he  has  never  com- 
plained that  I  know  of.  And  a  very  good  thing,  too, 
Barrere;  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  would  re- 
gret it  if  anything  did  happen,  before—" 

"No,"  said  the  doctor,  "but  the  poor  fellow  may 
Buffer.  I  wonder  if  you'd  let  me  have  the  charge  of 
him.  Maxwell?  I  know  j'-ou're  a  busy  man.  And  it 
would  please  his  mother  to  think  that  I  was  looking 
after  him.    What  do  you  say?" 

The  one  medical  man  looked  at  the  other.  Doctor 
Barrere  was  pale,  but  he  did  not  shrink  from  the  look 
turned  upon  him.  "I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,  Bar- 
rere," said  the  prison  doctor  at  last.  "I'm  getting 
all  wrong  for  want  of  a  little  rest.  Feel  my  hand— 
my  nerves  are  as  much  shaken  as  Surtees'!    If  you'll 


DR.  BARRERE.  151 

take  the  whole  for  a  fortnight,  so  that  1  may  take  my 
holiday-" 

Dr.  Barrere  thought  for  a  moment.  *'A  fortnight? 
That  will  be  till  after— I  don't  know  how  I'm  to  do 
it  with  my  practice ;  but  I  will  do  it,  for  the  sake  of 
— your  health,  Maxwell:  for  I  see  you  are  in  a  bad 
way." 

*' Hurrah!"  said  the  other,  **a  breath  of  air  will 
Bet  me  all  right,  and  I  shall  be  forever  obliged  to  you, 
Barrere."  Then  he  stopped  for  a  moment  and  looked 
keenly  in  his  face.  *'You're  a  better  man  than  I  am, 
and  know  more :  but  for  God 's  sake,  Barrere,  no  tricks 
—no  tricks.    You  know  what  I  mean,"  he  said. 

**No,  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  I  know  you 
want  a  holiday,  and  I  want  to  take  care  of  a  case  in 
which  I  am  interested.  It  suits  us  both.  Let  me  have 
all  the  details  you  can,"  said  Dr.  Barrere. 


152  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


'T*  HE  day  had  come,  and  almost  the  hour.    The 

*  I  weary  time  had  stolen,  endless,  yet  flying  on 
^SejbJ  noiseless  wings ;  an  eternity  of  featureless  lin- 
gering hours,  yet  speeding,  speeding  towards  that  one 
fixed  end.  And  there  was  no  reprieve.  The  important 
people  of  Poolborough  had  retired  sullenly  from  their 
endeavours.  To  support  a  Government  faithfully  and 
yet  not  to  have  one  poor  favour  granted— their  rec- 
ommendation to  mercy  turned  back  upon  themselves ; 
they  were  indignant,  and  in  that  grievance  they  for- 
got the  original  cause  of  it.  Still  there  were  one  or 
two  still  toiling  on.  But  the  morning  of  the  fatal  day 
had  dawned  and  nothing  had  come. 

To  tell  how  Mrs.  Surtees  and  Agnes  had  lived 
through  these  days  is  beyond  our  power.  They  did 
not  live ;  they  dragged  through  a  feverish  dream  from 
one  time  of  seeing  him  to  another,  unconscious  what 
passed  in  the  meantime,  except  when  some  messenger 
would  come  to  their  door,  and  a  wild  blaze  and  frenzy 
of  hope  would  light  up  in  their  miserable  hearts :  for 
it  always  seemed  to  them  that  it  must  be  the  reprieve 
which  was  coming,  though  each  said  to  herself  that  it 
would  not,  could  not,  come.  And  when  they  saw  Jim, 
that  one  actual  recurring  point  in  their  lives  was  per- 
haps more  miserable  than  the  intervals.  For  to  see 
him,  and  to  know  that  the  hour  was  coming  ever 
nearer  and  nearer  when  he  must  die ;  to  sit  with  him, 
never  free  from  inspection,  never  out  of  hearing  of 
some  compulsory  spectator;  to  see  the  tension  of  his 
nerves,  the  strain  of  intolerable  expectation  in  him— 
was  almost  more  than  flesh  and  blood  could  bear. 
They  had  privileges  which  were  not  allowed  in  ordi- 
nary cases— for  were  not  they  still  ranked  among  the 
best  people  of  Poolborough,  though  beaten  down  by 


DR.  BARRERE.  153 

horrible  calamity  ?  Wliat  could  they  say  to  him  ?  Not 
even  the  religious  exhortations,  the  prayers  which 
came  from  other  lips  less  trembling.  They  were  dumb. 
"Dear  Jim,"  and  **God  bless  you,"  was  all  they  could 
say.  Their  misery  was  too  great,  there  was  no  utter- 
ance in  it;  a  word  would  have  overthrown  the  en- 
forced and  awful  calm.  And  neither  could  he  speak. 
When  he  had  said  "Mother,"  and  kissed  her,  and 
smiled,  that  was  all.  Then  they  sat  silent  holding 
each  other's  hands. 

Through  all  this  Dr.  Barrere  was  the  only  human 
supporter  of  the  miserable  family.    He  had  promised 
to  stand  by  Jim,  to  the  end,  not  to  leave  him  till  life 
had  left  him— till  all  was  over.    And  now  the  supreme 
moment  had  nearly  come.     The  doctor  was  as  pale, 
almost  paler  than  he  who  was  about  to  die.    Tiere 
was  an  air  about  him  of  sternness,  almost  of  despera- 
tion ;  yet  to  Jim  he  was  tender  as  his  mother.    He  had 
warned  the  authorities  what  he  feared,  that  agitation 
and  excitement  might  even  yet  rob  the  law  of  its  vic- 
tim.   He  had  been  allowed  to  be  with  the  condemned 
man  from  earliest  dawn  of  the  fatal  morning  in  con- 
sequence of  the  warning  he  had  given,  but  it  appeared 
to  the  attendants  that  Jim  himself  bore  a  less  alarm- 
ing air  than  the  doctor,  whose  colourless  face  and 
haggard  eyes  looked  as  if  he  had  not  slept  for  a  week. 
Jim,  poor  Jim,  had  summoned  all  his  courage  for  this 
supreme  moment.    There  was  a  sweetness  in  his  look 
that  added  to  its  youthf ulness.    He  looked  like  a  boy ; 
his  long  imprisonment  and  the  enforced  self-denial 
there  was  in  it,  had  chased  from  his  face  all  stains  of 
evil.    He  was  pale  and  worn  with  his  confinement  and 
with  the  interval  of  awful  waiting,  but  his  eyes  were 
clear  as  a  child's— pathetic,  tender,  with  a  wistful 
smile  in  them,  as  though  the  arrival  of  the  fatal  hour 
had  brought  relief.    The  old  clergyman  who  had  bap- 
tised him  had  come,  too,  to  stand  by  him  to  the  last, 
and  he  could  scarcely  speak  for  tears.    But  Jim  was 
calm,  and  smiled;  if  any  bit  of  blue  sky  was  in  that 


154  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

cell  of  the  condemned,  with  all  its  grim  and  melan- 
choly memories,  it  was  in  Jim's  face. 

The  doctor  moved  about  him  not  able  to  keep  still, 
with  that  look  of  desperation,  listening  for  every 
sound.  But  all  was  still  except  the  broken  voice  of 
the  old  clergyman,  who  had  knelt  down  and  was  pray- 
ing. One  of  the  attendants  too  had  gone  down  on 
his  knees.  The  other  stood  watching,  yet  distracted 
by  a  pity  which  even  his  hardened  faculties  could  not 
resist.  Jim  sat  with  his  hands  clasped,  his  eyes  for 
a  moment  closed,  the  smile  still  quivering  about  his 
mouth.  In  this  stillness  of  intense  feeling  all  observa- 
tion save  that  of  the  ever-watchful  doctor  was  mo- 
mentarily subdued.  Suddenly  Jim's  head  seemed  to 
droop  forward  on  his  breast ;  the  doctor  came  in  front 
of  him  with  one  swift  step,  and  through  the  sound  of 
the  praying  called  imperatively,  sharply,  for  wine, 
wine !  The  warder  who  was  standing  rushed  to  fill  it 
out,  while  Dr.  Barrere  bent  over  the  fainting  youth. 
It  all  passed  in  a  moment,  before  the  half-said  sen- 
tence of  the  prayer  was  completed.  The  clergyman's 
voice  wavered,  stopped— and  then  resumed  again,  fin- 
ishing the  phrase,  notwithstanding  the  stir  and  hur- 
ried movement,  the  momentary  breathless  scuffle, 
which  a  sudden  attack  of  illness,  a  fit  or  faint,  always 
occasions.  Then  a  sharp  sound  broke  the  stillness— 
the  crash  of  the  wine  glass  which  the  doctor  let  fall 
from  his  hand  after  forcing  the  contents,  as  it  seemed, 
down  the  patient's  throat.  The  old  clergyman  on  his 
knees  still,  paused  and  opening  his  eyes  gazed  at  the 
strange  scene,  not  awakening  to  the  seriousness  of  it, 
or  perceiving  any  new  element  introduced  into  the 
solemnity  of  the  situation  for  some  minutes,  yet  gaz- 
ing with  tragic  eyes,  since  nothing  in  the  first  place 
could  well  be  more  tragic.  The  little  stir,  the  scuffle 
of  the  moving  feet,  the  two  men  in  motion  about  the 
still  figure  in  the  chair,  lasted  for  a  little  longer ;  then 
the  warder  uttered  a  stifled  cry.  The  clergyman  on 
his  knees,  his  heart  still  in  his  prayer  for  the  dying, 


DR.  BARRERE.  155 

felt  it  half  profane  to  break  off  into  words  to  men  in 
the  midst  of  those  he  was  addressing  to  God— but 
forced  by  this  strange  break  cried,  "What  is  it?— 
what  has  happened?"  in. spite  of  himself. 

There  was  no  immediate  answer.  The  doctor  gave 
some  brief,  quick  directions,  and  with  the  help  of  the 
warder  lifted  the  helpless  figure,  all  fallen  upon  itself 
like  a  ruined  house,  with  difficulty  to  the  bed.  The 
limp,  long,  helpless  limbs,  the  entire  immobility  and 
deadness  of  the  form  struck  with  a  strange  chill  to  the 
heart  of  the  man  who  had  been  interceding  Avrapt  in 
another  atmosphere  than  that  of  earth.  The  clergy- 
man got  up  from  his  knees,  coming  back  with  a  keen 
and  awful  sense  of  his  humanity.  "Has  he- 
fainted?"  he  asked,  with  a  gasp. 

Once  more  a  dead  pause,  a  stillness  in  which  the 
four  men  heard  their  hearts  beating ;  then  the  doctor 
said,  with  a  strange  brevity  and  solemnity,  "Better 
than  that— he  is  dead." 

Dead!  They  gathered  round  and  gazed  in  a  con- 
sternation beyond  words.  The  young  face,  scarcely 
paler  than  it  had  been  a  moment  since,  the  eyes  half 
shut,  the  lips  fallen  apart  with  that  awful  opening 
■which  is  made  by  the  exit  of  the  last  breath,  lay  back 
upon  the  wretched  pillow  in  all  that  abstraction  and 
incalculable  distance  which  comes  with  the  first  touch 
of  death.  No  one  could  look  at  that,  and  be  in  any 
doubt.  The  warders  stood  by  dazed  with  horror  and 
dismay,  as  if  they  had  let  their  prisoner  escape.  Was 
it  their  fault?  Would  they  be  blamed  for  it?  They 
had  seen  men  go  to  the  scaffold  before  with  little  feel- 
ing, but  they  had  never  seen  one  die  of  the  horror  of 
it,  as  Jim  had  died. 

While  they  were  thus  standing  a  sound  of  measured 
steps  was  heard  without.  The  door  was  opened  with 
that  harsh  turning  of  the  key  which  in  other  circum- 
stances would  have  sounded  like  the  trumpet  of  doom, 
but  which  now  woke  no  tremor,  scarcely  any  concern. 
It  was  the  sheriff  and  his  grim  procession  coming  for 


156  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

the  prisoner.  They  streamed  in  and  gathered  aston- 
ished about  the  bed:  Dr.  Barrere  turned  from  where 
he  stood  at  the  head,  with  a  face  which  was  like  ashes- 
pallid,  stern,  the  nostrils  dilating,  the  throat  held 
high.  He  made  a  solemn  gesture  with  his  hand  to- 
wards the  bed.    "You  come  too  late, ' '  he  said. 

The  men  had  come  in  almost  silently,  in  the  excite- 
ment of  the  moment  swelling  the  sombre  circle  to  a 
little  crowd.  They  thronged  upon  each  other  and 
looked  at  him,  lying  there  on  the  miserable  prison  bed, 
in  the  light  of  the  horrible  grated  windows,  all  awe- 
stricken  in  a  kind  of  %vey  consternation  not  knowing 
how  to  believe  it ;  for  it  was  a  thing  unparalleled  that 
one  who  was  condemned  should  thus  give  his  execu- 
tioner the  slip.  The  whisper  of  the  sheriff's  low  voice 
inquiring  into  the  catastrophe  broke  the  impression  a 
little.  * '  How  did  it  happen— how  was  it  ?  Dead !  But 
it  seems  impossible.  Are  you  sure,  doctor,  it  is  not  a 
faint?" 

The  doctor  waved  his  hand  almost  scornfully  to- 
wards the  still  and  rigid  form.  "I  foresaw  it  always; 
it  is— as  I  thought  it  would  be,"  he  said. 

"His  poor  mother!"  said  the  clergyman  with  a 
sort  of  habitual,  conventional  lamentation,  as  if  it 
could  matter  to  that  poor  mother !  Dr.  Barrere  turned 
upon  him  quickly.  "Go  to  them— tell  them— it  will 
save  them  something, ' '  he  said  with  sudden  eagerness. 
"You  can  do  no  more  here." 

"It  seems  impossible,"  the  sheriff  repeated,  turning 
again  to  the  bed.  "Is  there  a  glass  to  be  had?— any- 
thing—hold  it  to  his  lips!  Do  something,  doctor. 
Have  you  tried  all  means?  are  you  sure?"  He  had 
no  doubt;  but  astonishment,  and  the  novelty  of  the 
situation,  suggested  questions  which  really  required 
no  answer.  He  touched  the  dead  hand  and  shuddered. 
"It  is  extraordinary,  most  extraordinary,"  he  said. 

"I  warned  you  of  the  possibility  from  the  begin- 
ning," said  Dr.  Barrere;  "his  heart  was  very  weak. 
It  is  astonishing  rather  that  he  bore  the  strain  so 


DR.  BARRERE.  157 

long."  Then  he  added  with  that  stern  look,  "It  is 
better  that  it  should  be  so." 

The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  his  lips  when  a  sud- 
den commotion  was  heard  as  of  some  one  hurrying 
along  the  stony  passages,  a  sound  of  voices  and  hasty 
steps.  The  door  which,  in  view  of  the  fatal  ceremonial 
about  to  take  place,  had  been  left  open,  was  pushed 
quickly,  loudly  to  the  wall,  and  an  important  person- 
age, the  Mayor  of  Poolborough,  flushed  and  full  of 
excitement,  hurried  in.  ''Thank  God,"  he  cried,  wip- 
ing his  forehead,  "thank  God,  it's  come  in  time!  I 
knew  they  could  not  refuse  us.  Here  is  the  reprieve 
come  at  last." 

A  cry,  a  murmur  rose  into  the  air  from  all  the 
watchers.  Who  could  help  it  ?  The  reprieve— at  such 
a  moment!  This  solemn  mockery  was  more  than  hu- 
man nerves  could  bear.  The  warder  who  had  been 
poor  Jim's  chief  guardian  broke  forth  into  a  sudden 
loud  outburst,  like  a  child's,  of  crying.  The  sheriff 
could  not  speak.    He  pointed  silently  to  the  bed. 

But  of  all  the  bystanders  none  was  moved  like  Dr. 
Barrere.  He  fell  backward  as  if  he  had  received  a 
blow,  and  gazed  at  the  mayor  speechless,  his  under 
lip  dropping,  his  face  livid,  heavy  drops  coming  out 
upon  his  brow.  It  was  not  till  he  was  appealed  to  in 
the  sudden  explanations  that  followed  thaf  the  doctor 
came  to  himself.  When  he  was  addressed  he  seemed 
to  wake  as  from  a  dream,  and  answered  with  diffi- 
culty; his  lips  parched,  his  throat  dry,  making  con- 
vulsive efforts  to  moisten  his  tongue,  and  enunciate 
the  necessary  words.  "Heart  disease— feared  all  the 
time—"  he  said,  as  if  he  had  partly  lost  that  faculty 
of  speech.  The  mayor  looked  sharply  at  him,  as  if 
suspecting  something.  What  was  it?  intoxication? 
So  early,  and  at  such  a  time  ?  But  Dr.  Barrere  seemed 
to  have  lost  all  interest  in  what  was  proceeding.  He 
cared  nothing  for  their  looks.  He  cared  for  nothing 
in  the  world.  "I'm  of  no  further  use  here,"  he  said 
huskily,  and  went  toward  the  door  as  if  he  were  blind, 


158  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

pushing  against  one  and  another.  When  he  had 
reached  the  door,  however,  he  turned  back.  "The 
poor  fellow,"  he  said,  "the  poor— victim  was  to  be 
given  to  his  family  after—.  It  was  a  favour  granted 
them.  The  removal  was  to  be  seen  to— tonight;  there 
is  no  reason  for  departing  from  that  arrangement,  I 
suppose  ? ' ' 

The  officials  looked  at  each  other,  not  knowing  what 
to  say,  feeling  that  in  the  unexpected  catastrophe 
there  was  something  which  demanded  a  change,  yet 
unable  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  to  think  what  if 
was.  Then  the  mayor  replied  faltering,  "I  suppose 
so.  It  need  not  make  any  change,  do  you  think  ?  The 
poor  family— have  enough  to  bear  without  vexing 
them  with  alterations.  Since  there  can  be— no  doubt 
— "  lie  paused  and  looked,  and  shuddered.  No 
doubt,  oh,  no  doubt!  The  execution  would  have  been 
conducted  with  far  less  sensation.  It  was  strange 
that  such  a  shivering  of  horror  should  overwhelm 
them  to  see  him  lying  so  still  upon  that  bed. 

"Now  I  must  go— to  my  rounds,"  the  doctor  said. 
He  went  out,  buttoning  up  his  coat  to  his  throat,  as 
if  he  were  shivering  too,  though  it  was  a  genial  Sep- 
tember morning,  soft  and  warm.  He  went  out  from 
the  dark  prison  walls  into  the  sunshine  like  a  man 
dazed,  passing  the  horrible  preparations  on  his  way, 
the  coffin !  from  which  he  shrank  as  if  it  had  been  a 
monster.  Dr.  Barrere's  countenance  was  like  that  of 
a  dead  man.  He  walked  straight  before  him  as  if  he 
were  going  somewhere;  but  he  went  upon  no  rounds; 
his  patients  waited  for  him  vainly.  He  walked  and 
walked  till  fatigue  of  the  body  produced  a  general 
stupor,  aiding  and  completing  the  strange  collapse  of 
the  mind,  and  then  mechanically,  but  not  till  it  was 
evening,  he  went  home.  His  housekeeper,  full  of  anx- 
ious questions,  vras  silenced  by  the  look  of  his  face, 
and  had  his  dinner  placed  hastily  and  silently  upon 
the  table,  thinking  the  agitation  of  the  day  had  been 
too  much  for  him.    Dr.  Barrere  neither  ate  nor  drank. 


DR.  BARRERE.  159 

but  he  fell  into  a  heavy  and  troubled  sleep  at  the 
table,  where  he  had  seated  himself  mechanically.  It 
was  late  when  he  woke,  and  dark,  and  for  a  moment 
there  was  a  pause  of  bewilderment  and  confusion  in 
his  mind.  Then  he  rose,  went  to  his  desk  and  took 
some  money  out  of  it,  and  his  cheque-book.  He  took 
up  an  overcoat  as  he  went  thro\igh  the  hall.  He  did 
not  so  much  as  hear  the  servant's  timid  question  as 
to  when  he  should  return.    When  he  should  return! 

After  the  body  of  poor  Jim  had  been  brought  back 
to  his  mother's  house  and  all  was  silent  there,  in  that 
profound  hush  after  an  expected  calamity  which  is 
almost  a  relief,  Agnes,  not  able  to  rest,  wondering  in 
her  misery  why  all  that  day  her  lover  had  not  come 
near  them,  had  not  sent  any  communication,  but  for 
the  first  time  had  abandoned  them  in  their  sorrow, 
stood  for  a  moment  by  the  window  in  the  hall  to  look 
if,  by  any  possibility,  he  might  still  be  coming.  He 
might  have  been  detained  by  some  pressing  call.  He 
had  neglected  everything  for  Jim;  he  might  now  bft 
compelled  to  make  up  for  it— who  could  tell?  Some 
reason  there  must  be  for  his  desertion.  As  she  went 
to  the  window,  which  was  on  a  level  with  the  street, 
it  gave  her  a  shock  beyond  expression  to  see  a  pallid 
face  close  to  it  looking  in— a  miserable  face,  haggard, 
with  eyes  that  were  bloodshot  and  red,  while  every- 
thing else  was  the  colour  of  clay— the  colour  of  death. 
It  was  with  difficulty  she  restrained  a  scream.  She 
opened  the  window  softly  and  said: 

"Arnold !  you  have  come  at  last !"  The  figure  out- 
side shrank  and  withdrew,  then  said,  **Do  not  touch 
me— don't  look  at  me.  I  did  it:  to  save  him  the 
shame—" 

** Arnold,  come  in,  for  God's  sake!  Don't  speak  so 
—Arnold-" 

"Never,  never  more!  I  thought  the  reprieve  would 
not  come.    I  did  it.    Oh,  never,  never  more ! ' ' 

"Arnold!"  she  cried,  stretching  out  her  hands.  But 
he  was  gone.     Opening  the  door  as  quickly  as  her 


160  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

trembling  would  let  her,  the  poor  girl  looked  out  into 
the  dark  street,  into  the  night:  but  there  was  no  one 
there. 

Was  it  a  dream,  a  vision,  an  illusion  of  exhausted 
nature,  unable  to  discern  reality  from  imagination? 
No  one  ever  knew;  but  from  that  night  Dr.  Barrere 
■was  never  seen  more  in  Poolborough,  nor  did  any  of 
those  who  had  known  him  hear  of  him  again.  He 
disappeared  as  if  he  had  never  been.  And  if  that  was 
the  terrible  explanation  of  it,  or  if  the  sudden  shock 
had  maddened  him,  or  if  it  was  really  he  that  Agnes 
saw,  no  one  can  tell.  But  it  was  the  last  that  was  ever 
heard  or  seen  of  Dr.  Barrere. 

Maeqaeet  Oliphant. 


X 

A  WILL  AND  A  WAY. 


I 


T  WAS  in  that  pleasant  season  of  the  year 
when  there  is  a  ladder  at  every  apple-tree,  and 
every  man  met  on  the  road  is  driving  with  his 
left  hand  and  eating  a  red  apple  from  his  right.  At 
this  season,  as  regularly  as  the  year  rolled  round,  old 
Carshena  Hubblestone  nearly  died  of  cramps,  caused 
by  gorging  himself  with  apples  that  fell  almost  into 
his  mouth  from  the  spreading  boughs  of  fruit  trees 
that  fairly  roofed  his  low-built  house.  This  was,  as 
it  were,  Carshena 's  one  dissipation.  The  apples  cost 
him  nothing,  and  his  medical  attention  after  his  bouts 
cost  him  nothing  either,  for  he  was  the  son  of  a  physi- 
cian, and  though  his  father  was  long  since  dead,  the 
village  doctor  would  not  render  a  bill. 

"Crow  don't  eat  crow,"  Dr.  Michel  answered, 
roughly,  when-  Carshena  weakly  asked  him  what  he 
owed.  The  chance  of  thus  roistering  so  cheaply  is  not 
presented  to  every  man,  and  reluctance  to  let  such  a 
bargain  pass  was  perhaps  what  helped  to  lend  period- 
icity to  the  old  man 's  attacks.  Dr.  Michel  always  held 
that  this  was  his  chief  incentive,  and,  be  this  as  it 
might,  it  was  very  certain  that  apples  and  bargains 
were  the  only  two  things  on  earth  for  which  Car- 
shena was  ever  known  to  show  a  weakness,  creditable 
or  discreditable.  .Most  small  communities  have  their 
rich  men  and  their  mean  men,  but  in  the  village  of 
Leonard  the  two  were  one. 

As  the  years  passed  on  and  Carshena 's  head  whit- 
ened, it  naturally  grew  to  be  a  less  and  less  easy  tas^- 
for  Dr.  Michel  to  bring  his  patient  back  to  the  place 
2-n  (161) 


162  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

where  lie  had  been  before  apples  ripened.  If  the  situ- 
ation had  not  tickled  a  spice  of  hunJor  that  lay  under 
the  physician's  grim  exterior  he  would  have  refused 
these  autumnal  attentions.  As  it  was  he  confined 
himself  to  futile  warnings  and  threats  of  non-attend- 
ance, but  he  always  did  obey  the  summons  when  it 
came.  The  townsfolk  of  Leonard  would  all  have  taken 
the  same  humorous  view  of  this  weakness  of  Car- 
shena's  but  for  the  trouble  which  it  gave  his  too-good 
sister  Adelia— liked  and  pitied  by  every  one.  Adelia 
nursed  her  brother  in  each  attack  with  a  tenderness 
and  anxiety  that  aggravated  all  the  community.  No- 
body but  his  sister  Adelia  was  ever  anxious  over  Car- 
shena.  It  was,  therefore,  like  a  bolt  from  a  clear  sky 
when,  in  this  chronicled  autumn,  the  following  con- 
versation took  place  at  the  Hubblestones'  gate.  Dr. 
Michel's  buggy  was  wheeling  out  to  the  main  road  as 
Mr,  Gowan,  the  town  butcher,  was  about  to  drive 
through  the  gateway. 

"Well,  doctor,"  called  the  genial  man  of  blood,  a 
broad  grin  on  his  round  face,  "how's  the  patient?" 

"He's  gone,  sir,"  said  Dr.  Michel,  drawing  rein. 
The  butcher  drew  up  his  horse  sharply,  his  ruddy  face 
changing  so  suddenly  that  the  doctor  laughed  out- 
right. 

* '  Gone ! '  *  echoed  Mr.  Gowan.    *  *  Not  gone  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  sir,  as  I  warned  him  time  and  again  he  would 

go." 

The  butcher  shook  his  head  and  pursed  his  lips,  the 
news  slowly  penetrating  his  mind.  * '  Well,  I  certainly 
would  hate  to  die  of  eatin'  apples,"  he  said  at  last. 

"I  guess  you'll  find  you  hate  to  die  of  anything, 
when  the  time  comes,"  said  the  more  experienced  phy- 
sician. ' '  Carshena, ' '  he  added,  * '  got  nothing  he  didn  't 
bring  on  himself,  if  that's  any  comfort  to  him." 

"Don't  speak  hard  of  the  dead,  doctor,"  he  urged. 
"We've  all  got  to  follow  him  some  day.  He  wasn't 
a  nice  man  in  some  ways,  Carshena  wasn't,  but—" 

"He  was  a  nasty  old  man  in  most  ways,"  snapped 
the  doctor. 


A  WILL  AND  A  WAY,  163 

"Don't  say  such  things  now,  doctor,  don't,"  urged 
his  companion.  "Ain't  he  paid  in  his  full  price,  what- 
ever his  sins  was?  Poor  soul!  he  can't  be  worse 'n 
dead." 

"Oh,  yes,  he  can,  and  for  one  I  believe  he  is,"  in- 
terrupted the  doctor.  His  crisp  white  hair  seemed  to 
Mr.  Gowan  to  curl  tighter  over  his  head  as  he  frowned 
with  some  thought  he  was  nursing.  "You  haven't 
seen  the  will  I  had  to  witness  this  morning ! "  he  burst 
out.  "Just  you  wait  a  little!  Upon  my  soul!  the 
more  I  think  of  it  the  madder  I  get!  It's  out  of  my 
bailiwick,  but  if  I  were  a  lawyer  I'd  walk  right  up 
now  under  those  old  apple-trees  yonder,  and  before 
that  man  was  cold  on  his  bed  I'd  have  his  sister's 
promise  to  break  his  old  will  into  a  thousand  splin- 
ters !    Wait  till  you  hear  it.     Good-morning. ' ' 

When  the  will  was  read  and  its  contents  announced, 
the  town  of  Leonard,  including  its  butcher,  took  the 
doctor's  view  to  a  man. 

"A  brute,"  said  Dr.  Michel,  hotly,  "who  has  let  his 
old  sister  work  her  hands  to  the  bone  for  him,  and  then 
turned  her  off  like  some  old  worn-out  horse,  has,  in 
my  opinion,  no  right  to  a  will  at  all.  How  about  set- 
ting this  will  aside  in  his  sister 's  interests,  judge  ? ' ' 

A  little  convocation  of  the  leading  spirits  of  Leonard 
were  met  together  in  Dr.  Michel 's  office  tt)  discuss  the 
matter  of  Carshena's  will,  and  what  should  be  done 
with  Adelia,  cast  on  the  charity  of  the  village.  Judge 
Bowles,  when  appealed  to,  raised  his  mild  blue  eyes 
and  looked  around  the  company, 

"Adelia,"  he  said,  "is  the  best  sister  I  ever  knew. 
Had  the  man  no  shame  ? ' ' 

"Shame!"  said  the  town's  barber,  with  a  reminis- 
cent chuckle;  "why,  he  came  into  my  parlors  one  day 
and  asked  me  if  I  'd  cut  the  back  of  his  hair  for  twelve 
cents,  and  let  him  cut  the  front  himself ;  and  I  did  it, 
for  the  joke  of  the  thing!  He  saved  thirteen  cents 
that  way." 

"  Gentlemen,  gentlemen ! ' '  demurred  the  judge ;  but 


164  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

amid  the  general  laughter  the  tax-gatherer's  voice 
rose : 

** There  isn't  a  tax  he  didn't  fight.  This  town  got 
nothing  out  of  Carshena  Hubblestone  that  he  could 
help  paying;  and  now  he  leaves  us  his  relatives  to 
support." 

Judge  Bowles  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  in  mild  but  earnest  rebuke, 
"the  man  is  dead.  We  all  know  what  his  character 
was  without  these  distressing  particulars.  It  is  en- 
tirely true  that  we  owe  him  nothing,  but  a  dead  man 
is  defenceless,  and  his  will  is  his  will,  and  law  is  law. 
Did  you  ever  think  what  a  solemn  title  a  man's  last 
will  is?  It  means  just  what  it  says,  gentlemen— his 
last  will,  his  last  wish  and  power  of  disposition  writ 
down  on  paper,  concerning  his  own  property.  It's  a 
Bolemn  thing  to  break  that. ' ' 

"A  man's  no  business  having  such  a  will  and  a  dis- 
position to  write  it  down  on  paper,"  said  the  doctor. 
"What  were  the  exact  terms  of  the  will,  judge?" 

"Very  simple,"  said  Judge  Bowles,  dryly.  "The 
whole  estate  is  to  be  sold,  and  the  entire  proceeds, 
every  cent  realized,  except  what  is  kept  back  for  re- 
pairs and  care,  is  to  be  appHed  to  the  purchase  of  a 
suitable  lot  and  the  raising  of  a  great  monument  over 
the  mortal  remains  of  Carshena  Hubblestone." 

"While  his  sister  starves!"  added  Dr.  Michel. 

"Gee!"  exclaimed  the  kindly  butcher.  He  had 
heard  all  this  before,  but  thus  repeated  it  seemed  to 
strike  him  anew,  as  somehow  it  did  all  the  rest  of  the 
company.  They  sat  looking  at  each  other  in  silence, 
with  indrawings  of  the  breath  and  compression  of  lips. 

"There  is  this  extenuating  circumstance,"  said  the 
doctor,  with  dangerous  smoothness;  "our  lamented 
brother  was  aware  that  unless  he  erected  a  monument 
to  himself  he  might  never  enjoy  one.  We— the  judge, 
Mr.  Gowan,  and  myself— are  made  sole  executors 
under  the  will— without  pay.  In  Carshena 's  life 
Adelia  was  his  white  slave.    In  his  death,  doubtless, 


A  WILL  AND  A  WAY.  165 

he  felt  he  could  trust  her  to  make  no  protest.  I  wish 
you  could  have  seen  her  with  him  as  I  have,  gentle- 
men. I  shall  call  it  a  shame  upon  us  if  we  let  her  eat 
the  bitter  bread  of  our  charity.  She's  been  put  upon 
and  trodden  down,  but  she's  still  a  proud  woman  in 
her  way,  and  we've  got  to  save  her  from  a  bitter  old 
age.    We've  got  to  do  it." 

"It's  the  kind  of  thing  that  discourages  one's  belief 
in  humanity,"  said  the  judge,  in  a  lowered  tone.  "This 
affair  might  be  only  absurd  if  it  weren't  for  the  sis- 
ter's share  in  it.  As  it  is,  it's  a  revelation  of  human 
selfishness  that  makes  one  heart-sick. ' ' 

Dr.  Michel 's  laugh  rang  out  irreverently. 

"It's  perfectly  absurd,  sister  or  no  sister,"  he  said. 
"Nobody,  not  one  of  us,  loved  Carshena  in  life— 
though  I  think  now  we  didn  't  hate  him  half  enough — 
and  here  in  death  he's  fixed  it  so  the  town's  got  to 
pay  for  his  responsibilities  while  his  money  builds 
him  a  grand  monument !  I  call  that  about  as  absurd 
as  you'll  get  anywhere.  I'll  grant  you  it  makes  me 
downright  sick  at  my  stomach,  judge,  but  it  don't 
touch  my  heart.  No,  sir.  Keep  your  organs  separate, 
as  I  do,  gentlemen.  There's  one  thing  certain"— 
he  drew  the  eyes  of  his  audience  with  uplifted  finger— 
"if  we  can't  outwit  this  will  somehow,  we'll  be  the 
laughing-stock  of  this  whole  county.  I  don't  care  a 
snap  of  my  finger  if  Carshena  has  a  monument  as  high 
as  Haman's  gallows,  if  only  his  sister  is  protected  at 
the  same  time. ' ' 

"Well,  short  of  breaking  the  will,  what  would  you 
suggest,  doctor?"  asked  Judge  Bowles,  with  a  little 
stiffness.  He  had  not  liked  the  familiar  discourse  on 
his  organs,  but  the  doctor  did  not  care.  The  judge 
was  ruffled  at  last,  which  was  exactly  what  he  desired. 

"Suggest?"  he  cried,  laughing.     "I  don't  know; 

but  I  know  there  never  was  a  will  writ-ten  that  couldn't 

be  driven  through  with  a  coach  and  six  if  the  right 

man  sits  on  the  box.    You're  the  lawyer,  judge." 

'  The  judge  was  a  lawyer,  as  he  then  and  there  pro- 


166  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

ceeded  to  prove.  He  rose  to  his  feet  and  spoke  in  his 
old-fashioned  style : 

"Gentlemen,  I  think  I  speak  for  this  company  when 
I  say  that  we  strongly  object  to  the  breaking  of  this 
will  as  a  bad  precedent  in  the  community.  We  wish 
it  carried  out  to  the  very  letter.  Our  fellow-towns- 
man knew  his  sister's  needs  better  than  we,  and  he 
chose  to  leave  her  needy.  There  are  many,  many 
things  this  town  sorely  wants,  as  he  also  knew,  but  he 
chose  to  use  his  money  otherwise.  What  a  monument 
to  him  it  would  have  been  had  he  built  us  the  new 
school-house  our  town  requires!  The  wet  south  lot 
down  by  the  old  mill  is  an  evesore  to  the  village. 
Had  he  used  that  land  and  drained  it  and  set  up  a 
school-house  there,  or  indeed  any  public  building, 
what  a  different  meeting  this  would  have  been !  He 
was  our  only  man  of  wealth,  and  he  leaves  not  so  much 
as  a  town  clock  to  thank  him  for.  No;  a  monument 
to  himself  is  what  his  will  calls  for,  and  a  monument 
he  shall  have.  If  we  failed  him  here,  which  of  us 
would  feel  sure  that  our  own  wills  would  be  carried 
out  ?  In  the  confidence  of  these  four  walls  we  can  say 
that  the  difficulties  of  the  inscription  and  the  style  of 
monument  seem  insuperable.  I  know  but  one  man  to 
whom  I  would  intrust  this  delicate  commission,  I 
feel  confident  that  he  would  not  render  us  too  absurd 
by  too  conspicuous  a  monument  or  too  florid  an  in- 
scription.   Need  I  name  Dr.  Michel  ? ' ' 

"Out  of  my  bailiwick,"  cried  the  doctor—"  'way 
out  of  my  bailiwick."  But  his  voice  was  drowned 
in  the  confusion  of  the  popular  acclaim  that  was  form- 
ing him  into  a  committee  of  one.  The  kindly  butcher 
made  his  way  to  the  doctor's  side  under  cover  of  the 
noise. 

"Take  it,  doctor;  now  do  take  it,"  he  whispered 
in  his  ear.  "There  ain't  a  man  in  the  town  that  can 
shave  this  pig  if  you  can't.  I  was  sayin'  just  yester- 
day you're  lost  in  this  little  place  of  ourn.  You've 
got  more  sense  than's  often  called  for  here.    Here's 


A  WILL  AND  A  WAY.  167 

the  chance  for  you  to  show  'em  what  you  can  do.  Do 
take  it." 

The  physician  looked  at  the  wheedling  little  butcher 
with  a  glance  from  his  blue  eye  that  was  half  kindly, 
half  irritated.  "Well,  I'll  take  it,"  he  cried;  "I'll 
take  it;  and  I  thank  you  for  your  confidence,  gentle- 
men." 

It  was  a  full  month  before  the  little  company  met 
again  in  the  doctor's  office,  but  during  that  period 
they  knew  Dr.  Michel  had  not  been  idle  in  the  matter 
intrusted  to  his  care.  He  was  seen  in  close  conversa- 
tion with  the  town's  first  masons,  the  best  carpenters, 
the  local  architect,  and  these  worthies,  under  close  and 
eager  examination,  gave  answers  that  dashed  the  un- 
spoken hbpes  of  those  who  questioned.  Here  were 
hona  fide  bids  asked  for  on  so  much  masonry,  so  much 
carpentering,  and  the  architect  had  been  ordered  to 
Bend  in  designs  of  monuments,  how  high  he  deemed  it 
unprofessional  to  state:  but  arguing  inversely,  they 
judged  by  the  length  of  his  countenance  that  the  meas- 
urements were  not  short— he  had  particularly  hated 
Carshena.  It  was,  for  all  these  reasons,  a  rather  anx- 
ious-looking company  that  met  in  Dr.  Michel's  office 
at  his  summons,  and  the  doctor 's  own  face  was  not  re- 
assuring as  he  opened  the  meeting. 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  slowly,  "it's  a  thank- 
less task  you've  given  me,  but  such  as  it  is,  I  hope  you 
will  find  I  have  performed  it  to  your  satisfaction. 
Here  are  various  plans  for  the  monument  to  be  erected 
to  our  late  fellow-citizen,  and  here  is  a  plan  of  the 
ground  that  it  has  seemed  to  me  most  suitable  to  pur- 
chase. It  has  been  a  task  peculiarly  uncongenial  to 
me,  because  I,  I  suppose,  know  more  than  any  of  you 
here  how  this  money  is  needed  where  it  ought  to  have 
gone.  I  saw  Adelia  yesterday,  and  lonely  and  ghost- 
ridden  as  that  old  house  would  be  to  any  of  us,  it's  a 
home  to  her  that's  to  be  sold  over  her  head  to  build 
this."  He  laid  his  hand  on  the  papers  he  had  thrown 
down  on  the  table  before  him.    The  little  company 


168  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

looked  silently  at  each  other,  with  faces  as  downcast 
as  if  they  were  to  blame.  It  was  Judge  Bowles  who 
spoke  first. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  **we  must  not  let  ourselves 
feel  too  responsible  in  this  matter.  We  are  only  fol- 
lowing our  plain  duty.  Show  us  the  monument  which 
you  consider  best,  doctor." 

The  doctor  was  silently  turning  over  the  papers. 
"Family  feeling  is  a  queer  thing,"  he  said,  medita- 
tively. "I  saw  Adelia  the  other  day,  and  I  asked  her 
if  she  wanted  a  neighbor  to  sleep  in  the  house  at  night. 

"  'There's  nothing  here  for  robbers  to  take,  Dr. 
Michel,'  she  said;  'and  if  it's  ghosts  you  think  I'm 
afraid  of,  I  only  wish  from  my  heart  ghosts  would 
come  back  to  visit  me.  Everybody  of  my  blood  is 
dead.'  " 

"It's  very  pitiful,"  said  Judge  Bowles,  slowly. 

The  doctor  turned  on  him  instantly.  "Do  you  seem 
to  feel  now  that  you  could  countenance  breaking  the 
will,  judge?" 

"No,"  said  the  judge,  shortly,  as  one  who  whistles 
to  keep  his  courage  up. 

The  doctor's  fingers  drummed  on  the  table  as  he 
paused  thoughtfully. 

"Carshena,"  he  said,  "if  you  can  believe  me,  meas- 
ured out  the  kerosene  oil  he  allowed  for  each  week  on 
Monday;  and  when  it  gave  out  they  went  to  bed  at 
dusk,  if  it  gave  out  on  Friday  night.  But  one  thing 
Adelia  did  manage  to  do.  So  long  as  a  drop  of  oil  was 
in  the  measure  a  light  stood  in  a  window  that  lit  up 
the  ugly  turn  in  the  county  road  round  the  corner 
of  their  house.  I  know  her  light  saved  me  from  a  bad 
collision  once;  some  of  you  also,  perhaps.  She's  kept 
that  little  lamp  so  clean  it  always  shone  like  a  jewel 
up  there.  The  window-pane  it  shone  through  had 
never  a  speck  on  it  either.  That's  what  I  call  public 
spirit.  And  it's  public  spirit,  too,  that  makes  her  keep 
sweet-smelling  flowers  growing  on  the  top  of  the  old 
road  wall.  In  summer  I  always  drive  past  there  slowly 


'A  WILL  AND  A  WAY.  169 

to  enjoy  them.  When  she  comes  on  the  charity  of  the 
town  she  may  console  herself  by  remembering  these 
things.  She  did  what  she  could  (in  spite  of  Car- 
shena),  and  nobody  can  do  more.  Here  are  the  plans 
for  his  monument,  gentlemen.  I  would  like  to  have 
your  vote  on  them." 

The  little  company,  as  if  glad  to  move,  drew  about 
the  table  as  the  doctor  opened  out  the  plans  in  a  row. 
The  butcher,  whose  ruddy  face  looked  dim  in  his  dis- 
appointment, and  whose  despondent  chin  hung  down 
on  his  white  shirt  bosom,  picked  up  one  of  the  de- 
signs gingerly  and  examined  it. 

"Are  they  all  alike,  doctor?"  he  asked. 

Judge  Bowles  looked  over  Mr.  Gowan's  shoulder. 

"Each  design  seems  to  be  a  hollow  shaft  of  some 
kind,  with  a  round  opening  at  the  top,"  he  said,  and 
looked  inquiringly  over  his  glasses  at  the  doctor,  who 
nodded  assent. 

**They  are  all  hollow.  You  seem  to  get  more  for 
your  money  so.  The  round  opening  at  the  top  of  the 
shaft  can  be  filled  with  anything  we  choose  later.  I 
might  suggest  a  crystal  with  the  virtues  of  the  de- 
ceased inscribed  on  it.  THen,  if  we  keep  a  light  burn- 
ing behind  the  glass  at  night,  those  virtues  will  shine 
before  us  by  night  and  by  day." 

Judge  Bowles  lifted  his  eyes  quickly.  The  doctor's 
face  was  unpleasantly  satiric,  and  his  blue  eyes  looked 
out  angrily  from  under  his  curling  white  hair.  Judge 
Bowles  sat  down,  leaning  back  heavily  in  his  chair, 
his  perplexed  eyes  still  on  Dr.  Michel's  frowning 
brow.  Mr.  Gowan,  with  a  look  as  near  anger  as  he 
could  achieve,  moved  to  a  seat  behind  the  stove.  His 
idol  was  failing  him  utterly.  He  felt  he  himself  could 
have  done  better  than  this.  Dr.  Michel's  roving  eyes 
glanced  round  the  circle  of  dissatisfied  and  dismayed 
faces,  and  then  for  the  first  time  he  seemed  to  break 
from  his  indifference : 

"This  is  all  very  well,  gentlemen— very  well  indeed. 
The  facts  are,  you  gave  me  a  commission,  and  bound 


170  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

me  to  fulfill  it  strictly  and  to  the  letter,  and  now  you 
are  dissatisfied  because  I  have  followed  your  wishes. 
What  did  you  expect?  If  you  had  left  the  matter 
to  me  without  restrictions,  I  should  certainly  have 
tried  to  break  the  will,  as  I  told  you.  Briefly,  here  is 
my  report.  We  shall  have  about  twenty  thousand 
dollars  all  told  to  invest  in  a  monument  over  our 
lamented  brother.  Any  one  of  these  hollow  masonry 
structures  here  will  cost  about  ten  thousand  dollars. 
As  to  the  purchase  of  a  suitable  lot,  which  the  will  di- 
rects, I  think  even  Carshena  would  declare  it  a  good 
bargain  to  pay  nothing  whatever  for  the  land,  and 
that  I  can  arrange,  I  believe.  I  have  good  reason  to 
suppose"— he  began  to  speak  very  slowly— "that  the 
town  would,  without  price,  allow  us  to  erect  this  monu- 
ment on  that  unsightly  bit  of  wet  land  to  the  south, 
near  the  old  mill,  if  we  in  turn  will  agree  to  drain  the 
grounds,  keep  them  in  good  order,  plant  flowers  and 
shrubbery,  and  further  promise  to  keep  a  light  burn- 
ing all  night  in  an  opening  at  the  top  of  the  monu- 
ment. I  spoke  of  a  crystal  set  in  that  opening,  with 
the  virtues  of  the  deceased  inscribed  upon  it,  but  we 
can,  if  we  choose,  carve  those  same  virtues  in  the  more 
imperishable  stone  below,  and  print  something  else— 
a  clock  face  perhaps— on  the  crystal  above.  That's  a 
mere  minor  detail." 

Judge  Bowles,  whose  gaze  had  been  growing  more 
and  more  bewildered,  now  started  in  his  chair  and  sat 
suddenly  upright.  He  stared  at  the  doctor  uncer- 
tainly. The  doctor  cast  a  quick  look  at  him,  and  went 
on  rapidly: 

"If  you  will  allow  me,  I'll  make  my  report  quickly, 
and  leave  it  with  you.  I  have  a  great  deal  to  do  this 
morning  in  other  directions.  It  has  occurred  to  me 
that  as  the  base  of  the  monument  is  to  be  square  and. 
hollow,  it  would  be  easy  to  fit  it  into  a  comfortable  liv- 
ing-room, with  one,  or  perhaps  two,  small  rooms  built 
about  it.  I  have  not  mentioned  this  to  the  architect, 
but  I  know  it  can  be  done.     The  will  especially  directs 


A  WILL  AND  A  WAY.  171 

that  repairs  and  care  be  allowed  for."  The  doctor 
was  talking  rapidly  now.  "The  monument  will  not 
cost  more  than  ten  thousand,  the  clock  about  two. 
Twelve  thousand  from  twenty  thousand  leaves  eight 
thousand.  The  yearly  interest  on  eight  thousand  and 
the  fact  that  we  could  offer  free  residence  in  the  monu- 
ment should  let  us  engage  a  reliable  resident  keeper, 
who  would  give  the  time  and  attention  that  such  a 
monument  and  such  a  park  would  need." 

The  doctor  paused,  and  again  looked  about  him. 

The  whole  circle  of  faces  looked  back  at  him  curi- 
ously—some with  a  puzzled  gaze,  but  several,  includ- 
ing Judge  Bowles,  with  a  half-fascinated,  half-dis- 
mayed air.  Mr.  Gowan  alone  preserved  his  look  of 
utter  hopelessness. 

** Who'd  take  a  job  like  that?"  he  said,  gloomily. 
"I  wouldn't,  for  one,  live  in  a  vault  with  Carshena, 
dead  or  alive." 

"Oh,  the  grave  could  be  outside,  and  the  monu- 
ment as  a  kind  of  monster  head-stone, ' '  said  the  doctor 
pleasantly.  "My  idea  was  to  have  the  grave  well  out- 
side. Four  or  five  hundred  and  a  home  isn't  much 
to  offer  a  man,  gentlemen,  but  I  happen  to  know  a  very 
respectable  elderly  woman  who  would,  it  seems  to  me, 
suit  us  exactly  as  well  as  a  man.  In  fact.  I  think  it 
would  considerably  add  to  the  picturesque  features 
of  our  little  town  park  to  have  a  resident  female 
keeper.  I  think  I  see  her  now,  sitting  in  the  summer 
sunshine  at  the  door  of  this  unique  head-stone  monu- 
ment, or  in  winter  independently  luxuriating  in  its 
warm  and  hospitable  shelter.  I  see  her  winding  the 
clock,  affectionately  keeping  the  grave  like  a  gorgeous 
flower-bed,  caring  for  the  shrubbery,  burnishing  the 
clock  lamp  till  it  shines  like  a  jewel,  as  she  well  knows 
how  to  do,  and  best  of  all  in  her  case,  gentlemen,  I 
happen  to  know  from  her  own  lips  that  she  has  no 
fear  of  ghosts.  Why,  gentlemen,  what's  the  matter? 
I  protest,  gentlemen." 

At  that  moment  Mr.  Gowan  might  be  said  to  be  the 


172  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

doctor's  only  audience.  The  rest  of  the  company  were 
engaged  in  whispering  to  each  other,  or  speechlessly 
giving  themselves  over  to  suppressed  and  unholy  glee. 
Judge  Bowles  was  openly  wiping  his  eyes  and  shaking 
in  his  chair.  Dr.  Michel  looked  around  the  circle  with 
resentful  surprise. 

"You  seem  amused,  gentlemen!"  he  said,  with  dig- 
nity ;  and  then  addressing  himself  to  Mr.  Gowan  exclu- 
sively, as  if  that  gentleman  alone  were  worthy  to  be 
his  listener,  "Would  you  object  to  a  woman  as  keeper, 
Mr.  Gowan?" 

"What's  her  name?"  asked  the  butcher. 
A  :oar  of  laughter,  not  to  be  long  suppressed, 
dr  wned  his  words,  Mr.  Gowan  looked  about  the 
shaken  cfrcle,  stared  for  a  moment,  then  suddenly,  as 
comprehension  .like  a  breaking  dawn,  spread  over  his 
round  face,  ^  brought  iiit.".'=5  hand  down  hard  on  his  fat 
knee. 

"W^^'/cloctor,"  he  roaretfl,  in  admiration  too  deep 
for  1.  ^giiter,  "if  you  ain't-  the  dawgornest!" 

TJg  doctor's  wiry  hair  st;eemed  to  rise  and  spread 

*s  wings  his  eyes  suappec'i  and  twinkled,  his  mouth 

rer      "Will  some  c,ne  embody  this  in  the  form 

"^^i'.";  ■        '"he  asked.,  gravely.     The  judge  dried 

"  ^'■.^  face  p.    nth  difficulty,  rose  to  his  feet. 

"c  "'^  deta  he  sai''  "I  move  that  we  build  this 
i  imxu  vies,  whoSc  ga  .  ^  enough  for  a  suite  of 
t.  Dms  iUsi*.  "klered,  now  start  ^  structure  on  the  lot 
wnich  our  g  \t.  He  stared  a.  ;n ;  that  we  ornament 
it  with'  an  V  cast  a  quick  look'  top :  and  '  -, 

tnat— that         "; 

"Seconded  ..me,  I'll  make  my  rer     ' 

The  d   jtor,  ,    -T-have  a  great        .s,  hiS  bo.1 

thrown  far  baci.  ,.   ,/'    ^     ^e  of  a  conque  - 

over  the  assem'  ^avor  of  the  v^ 

will  plea  S3  say  Aye,  ^jposed  No.    It  • 

be  carried!  it  is  carrx    ,     he  r:cited  in  on?-      pid 
brea+a. 

"Amen!"  endorsed  Mr.  Gowa^       rvently. 


/ 


A  WILL  AND  A  WAY.  173 

And  this  warm  approval  of  their  butcher  was  in  the 
end  echoed  as  cordially  by  the  most  pious  citizens  of 
Leonard.  After  the  first  shock  of  their  surprise  was 
over,  natural  misgivings  were  lost  in  enjoyment  of 
the  grim  humor  of  this  very  practical  jest  of  their 
good  doctor's,  that  visitors  now  actually  stop  over  a 
train  to  see.  Many  a  village  has  its  park,  and  many 
a  one  its  illuminated  clock;  it  was  left  for  Leonard 
to  have  in  its  park  a  grave  kept  like  a  gorgeous  flower- 
bed, and  at  the  grave's  head  a  towering  monument 
that  is  at  once  a  tombstone,  an  illuminated  clock  and 
a  residence. 

iWrho  the  next  keeper  may  be  it  is  one  of  the  amuse- 
ments of  Leonard  to  imagine.  The  present  keeper  is 
a  happy  old  woman,  whose  fellow-citizens  like  nothing 
better  than  to  see  her  winding  the  clock,  caring  for 
the  flowers,  burnishing  the  town  lamp ;  in  summer 
sitting  in  the  sunshine  at  the  door  of  the  head-stone 
monument,  in  winter  luxuriating  in  that  warm  and 
independent  shelter. 

*  *  I  feel  as  if  Carshena  knew  just  what  was  best  for 
me,  after  all,  doctor,"  she  said  to  her  physician,  iji 
his  first  call  upon  her  in  her  new  home    .^nc* 
worthy,  with  a  nod  of  his  white  head  ^' 

the  readiest  manner.  viems^to  ^  ■ 

"Doubtless,  madam,  doubtless,"  ht    ^^*-  "'•  ^'  ,nei 
had  all  this  in  mind  w^  ..aresqr-       ^^^^  _ 

Didn't  you,  Carshena?  '^  ^^""^  ^  ^^'"  ye  s.nia.'  / 
at  the  grave  as  he  p.  ^i;?iow,  sitting  ^  ^^^  ^^^^^  ^^ 
x^r-{.  inty  or  rep  .  ^\  *^^«  unique  hr      l,,;^^^  .^^^ 

,■■  .,  .        .^ter  independently  li 

'  and  hospitable  shelter.     I  sec 

ately  keeping  the  gr  V^  Beiscoe. 

\-        "      qj^      -  for  the  fh]     '         \         ^^■ 


9 


.t. 


-     'Ol  ^U    A 


XI 

DOCTOR  ARMSTRONG. 
I. 

OLVIN  ARMSTRONG  tried  to  take  up  his  pen 
with  an  air  of  happiness  and  relief,  for  it  was 
the  last  chapter  of  his  great  work  which  he 
was  about  to  commence.  But  the  effort  failed,  and  he 
leaned  back  in  his  chair,  thoroughly  tired  out— too 
jaded  to  be  brisk  or  energetic. 

It  was  not  his  professional  work  that  tired  him.  A 
London  surgeon,  with  a  magnificent  reputation,  he 
had  more  than  enough  to  do;  but  he  was  only  forty, 
and  his  constitution  was  of  iron.  Work  agreed  with 
him:  it  was  Thought  that  utterly  prostrated  him  at 
times.  No  sooner  was  his  last  engagement  fulfilled,  or 
his  last  patient  despatched,  than  he  retired  to  his 
library  and  gave  himself  up  to  the  great  psychological 
problem  that  racked  his  brains.  Night  brought  a 
short  relief:  he  slept  from  twelve  till  six;  but  morning 
renewed  his  wrestlings,  and  it  was  only  the  necessity 
of  attending  to  his  surgery  that  freed  him  from  the 
incessant  train  of  thought.  Would  that  his  head  were 
as  cool  as  his  strong,  firm  hands ! 

It  was  the  Llystery  of  Human  Pain  that  was  haunt- 
ing him.  Until  two  years  back  he  had  never  given 
such  questions  a  thought,  but  then  the  problem  began 
to  force  itself  upon  him.  How  was  it  that  so  many 
suffered  a  living  martyrdom,  whilst  he  himself  never 
knew  a  moment's  pain?  How  was  it  that,  having  no 
personal  knowledge  of  pain,  he  nevertheless  felt  such 
an  overpowering  sympathy  with  those  who  suffered, 
and  had  such  an  instinctive  inborn  gift  of  giving  re- 

(174) 


DOCTOR  G. 


01  ake  up  his  pen 

w  .  .  iief,  for  it  was 

tl  at  work  which  ht2 

failed,  and  he 

I  I-. wl     /m  + ton 


lii'ed  llim.     A 

.  .    reputation,  he 

h.  lio  wjvs  only  forty, 

a  a  Aii^-  Work  agreed  with 

Vaccinatin<^    the  ^j*jBafated  him  at 

K  '  -s  "  '  neat  fulfilled,  or 

retired  to  his 

i  psychological 

jht  brought  a 

i  six ;  but  morniig 

'  \v  the  necessity 

,  him  from  the 

W  ouid  that  his  head  wer 

is! 

n  Pain  that  was  haun  t 
k  he  had  never  giv( 
hen  the  prob^  —  '     - 
w  was  it  th<i 
hilst  he  himseii  nevi 

was  it  t^' '    ' -  - 

■  ripyprt'i,  ■: 

-^  who  sri 

i-5UXirijv'      ijMuiTi  giit  of  giv. 


DR.  ARMSTRONG.  175 

lief?  And  then  the  larger,  less  personal  questions: 
Was  there  any  guiding  hand  allotting  pain  to  inno- 
cent mortals?  "Were  they  really  innocent?  If  there 
V'as  design  in  it  all,  from  whom  came  the  design,  and 
what  was  its  purpose?  Was  it  for  good,  or  evil,  or 
both?  If  no  Providence  guided  humanity,  what  was 
the  origin  of  pain?  Why  was  it  allowed  to  be?  And 
so  on,  in  an  endless  train  of  thought,  one  problem  sug- 
gesting ten  others,  till  the  subject  broadened  out  to 
the  doors  of  Eternity  itself,  and  the  mind  reeled  be- 
fore its  own  imaginings. 

Armstrong  flew  to  his  books  for  assistance,  and 
primed  himself  with  the  ideas  of  the  metaphysicians; 
but  he  was  not  satisfied,  and  a  strong  impulse  led  him 
to  try  his  own  hand  at  solving  the  mystery.  Gradu- 
ally, after  much  hard  reading  and  thinking,  he 
evolved  a  theory  which,  though  far  from  satisfactory, 
seemed  ampler  and  better  than  the  ideas  of  the  old 
philosophers;  and  then,  slowly  and  laboriously,  he 
committed  it  to  paper.  As  the  work  grew,  he  became 
more  convinced  of  the  truth  which  seemed  to  lurk 
in  his  views,  the  foundation  of  real  discovery  on 
which  his  theses  were  based.  Something  of  his  mar- 
vellous insight  into  disease  and  distortion  seemed  to 
have  entered  into  the  book,  and  he  was  eager  to  give  it 
to  the  world. 

So  this  was  the  last  chapter !  By  Jove !  how  hot  and 
close  the  room  was !  It  was  annoying  to  feel  so  dull 
and  listless,  but  there  was  some  excuse:  nine  o'clock 
at  night  is  not  a  time  when  a  man  is  at  his  freshest, 
and  there  was  nothing  so  wearing  as  this  closely  woven 
intellectual  work,  where  every  thread  had  to  be  fol- 
lowed to  its  end,  every  detail  thought  out,  every  pos- 
sible ramification  explored,  and  the  mind  kept  at  its 
highest  tension  throughout,  straining  to  cover  the 
whole  ground  and  to  order  in  logical  sequence  its 
myriad  elusive  thoughts.  Difficult?  Why,  there  was 
nothing  to  compare  to  it!  But  what  was  the  good  of 
magnifying  troubles  ?    Here  was  the  final  chapter,  the 


176  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

conclusion  which  was  to  be  so  masterly,  already 
mapped  out  in  his  mind,  only  waiting  to  be  trans- 
ferred to  paper.  Armstrong  wiped  his  damp  fore- 
head, and  seized  the  pen.  The  room  was  lit  as  he  liked 
it,  with  only  a  lamp  casting  a  subdued  light  on  his 
desk;  the  rest  in  deepest  gloom.  Now  was  the  time 
to  begin.  But  he  was  terribly  tired. 
•  •••••••• 

"Kr-rkI 

Armstrong  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  pressed 
his  hand  to  his  head.  Something  inside  seemed  to 
have  broken  with  a  snap,  or  a  tiny  shutter  had  fallen 
away,  as  in  a  camera,  revealing  a  hidden  lens  in  his 
brain.  His  head  was  clearer  and  freer,  as  if  some 
clogging  veil  had  suddenly  been  removed,  and  before 
his  eyes  there  burned  a  new  light,  steady  and  cold, 
but  brilliant.  A  cooler,  purer  air  filled  the  room.  The 
present  melted  away  from  his  vision.    •    *    »    *    • 

Far  away— so  far  that  everything  was  dwarfed,  but 
yet  as  distinct  in  every  detail  as  though  it  had  been 
close  at  hand— Armstrong  saw  a  vision. 

A  dark  underground  dungeon,  with  damp  standing 
in  beads  on  its  bare  stone  walls ;  a  man,  bound,  gagged, 
and  helpless;  another,  black-masked  and  sullen  of 
movement;  a  third,  seated  on  a  small  platform,  with 
his  face  in  shadow.  A  feeble  hanging  lamp,  swaying 
to  and  fro  in  the  draughts  of  the  cell,  was  the  only 
illumination. 

The  vision  came  nearer  and  nearer,  and  grew  larger 
as  it  came,  until  it  reached  Armstrong  and  filled  his 
room,  and  he  felt  the  dank  breath  of  the  dungeon  stir 
his  hair.  He  looked  again :  the  masked  man  was  at  his 
elbow,  the  man  on  the  dais  was  above  him— unrecog- 
nisable in  the  shadow,  but  smiling  gently;  that  much 
he  could  see.  Then  he  looked  at  the  third  man,  the 
prisoner ;  and  a  thrill  of  dread  went  through  him,  for 
he  recognised  himself,— in  old-world,  long-forgotten 
garb,  but  still  himself.  And  then  the  whole  grew  real, 
•with  a  deadly  reality;  he  was  no  more  a  mere  spec- 


DR.  ARMSTRONG.  177 

tator,  but  a  part  of  the  vision,  and  the  vision  was  a 
part  of  his  own  existence.  The  chill  of  the  room  fell 
on  his  spirit,  filling  him  with  vague,  horrible  forebod- 
ings :  the  present  mingled  with  the  past,  and  his  spirit 
passed  into  the  limp,  helpless  figure  on  the  rack.  He 
—he  himself,  and  none  other— was  the  victim  in  the 
torture  chamber,  and  the  world  was  black  around 
him. 

There  was  a  clank  of  steel  on  the  floor,  as  though 
little  instruments  had  been  dropped,  and  then  a  sud- 
den sharp  pang  struck  him  from  an  unseen  source. 
Another,  another,  and  yet  another,— a  very  multitude 
of  keen  stabbing  pangs.  In  uncontrollable  agony  he 
raised  his  voice  to  shout  with  pain,  but  the  gag 
stopped  him,  choked  him,  throttled  his  curses.  And 
the  dark  figure  smiled  from  above. 

Then  came  hot,  burning,  throbbing  pains  that  shot 
through  him,  turning  the  blood  in  his  veins  to  fire, 
and  gnawing  his  vitals  till  they  consumed  away.  He 
tried  to  turn,  to  roll,  to  ease  himself  in  any  way,  but 
he  was  bound  and  rigid  and  helpless,  and  his  efforts 
only  increased  the  torture.  And  still  the  figure  sat 
motionless  above  him.  He  turned  his  streaming  eyes 
upwards  in  mute  appeal,  and  his  answer  was  a  smile. 

Then  the  sharp  pains  and  the  burning  misery  ceased 
for  a  while,  and  his  aching  limbs  rested,  and  all 
seemed  over.  But  the  presiding  fiend  waved  a  silent 
signal,  and  worse  came— stretching,  straining  torture, 
that  nearly  pulled  the  wretched  frame  asunder  (well 
iJ!  it  had!),  and  dull  grinding  agonies,  worse  than 
the  sharper  pains,  more  cruel  and  relentless  than  the 
slabs  or  blows  or  thrusts. 

And  then  the  worst  of  all— the  whole  in  combina- 
tion. Crushing,  grinding,  distorting,  straining,  break- 
ing, bending,  blinding,  burning,  flaying,  racking, 
stabbing— more  than  the  mind  can  picture  or  words 
describe— in  turn  and  together,  and  all  the  more  hor- 
rible, coming  unseen  and  sudden  and  unawares. 
Crush  and  rack  and  burn  and  grind,  till  the  brain  was 

2— 12 


178  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

on  fire  and  the  body  groaning  under  its  burdens ;  till, 
the  face  was  furrowed  with  tears  of  agony,  the  whole 
frame  shapeless  and  broken,  limbs  useless,  muscles 
tortured,  twisted  and  crushed,  nerves  shattered,  and 
the  spirit  within  flaming  with  miserable,  hopeless  hate. 
Madness?  No;  that  had  come  in  the  first  silent  mo- 
ments of  fear  and  pain,  but  the  cruel  hand  had  driven 
it  away,  and  now  there  was  only  Pain— deep,  unfath- 
omable Pain. 

Then  came  a  low  whisper,  the  cool  breath  of  Death 
waiting  softly  outside  the  chamber,  and  the  wounded 
soul  fluttered  for  a  moment  in  joyous  answer.  But 
the  human  fiend  above  knew  it,  and  the  torture 
stopped.  Sore,  blistered,  broken,  and  useless,  he  was 
flung  aside  to  endure  still  longer  in  his  misery,  and 
Death  turned  sighing  away. 
•  «***•••« 

Armstrong  sprang  from  his  chair  with  curses  on 
his  tongue  and  fury  in  his  heart,  and  grasped  convul- 
eively  at  the  retreating  vision.  But  it  was  far,  far 
off,  and  melting  slowly  into  air. 

Then  a  great  calm  fell  upon  him,  and  he  knew  what 
he  had  seen.  It  was  a  scene  from  a  former  life— his 
last  existence — and  it  was  vouchsafed  to  him  as  a  les- 
son, a  glimpse  of  the  everlasting  order  of  life.  The 
inspiration  of  a  great  Message  glowed  on  his  brow 
and  in  his  soul.  And  this  was  the  Message  which  he 
read,  clear  as  the  words  of  a  seer  :— 

''For  inasmuch  as  thou  hast  suffered  pain  and  bit- 
terness of  spirit  in  the  past,  so  shalt  thou  now  know 
freedom  from  such;  and  to  thee  it  shall  be  given,  by 
thy  past  sufferings,  to  discern  and  make  lighter  the 
grievous  burdens  of  thy  fellow-men.  And  the  pain 
that  thou  hast  felt  in  thy  veins  shall  give  thee  under- 
standing above  all  others,  that  thou  mayest  cure  man's 
infirmities  and  heal  the  sick  of  his  house." 


DR.  ARMSTRONG.  179 


II. 


The  light  of  a  great  revelation  dazzled  Armstrong 
for  a  while,  but  he  rose  from  it  with  renewed  strength 
and  hope  and  courage,  resolved  to  devote  himself  more 
than  ever  to  the  healing  art.  And  first  he  destroyed 
his  manuscript,  for  his  theories  were  shattered  and 
forgotten.  The  mystery  of  human  pain  was  still  un- 
solved; but  was  it  for  him  to  solve  it?  Providence 
had  given  him  another  mission,— to  heal  and  cure. 
And  Providence  had  given  him  the  clue  to  one  mys- 
tery, at  all  events— his  own  great  sympathy  with  suf- 
ferers and  insight  into  suffering.  Sometimes  he  won- 
dered whether  another  revelation  would  follow;  but 
none  came,  and  he  pursued  his  usual  career,  doing 
good  and  working  hard.  The  idle  speculations,  the 
restless  quest  of  secret  things,  which  had  haunted  him 
and  wearied  him  before,  were  now  of  the  past,  and  he 
lived  for  work  alone. 

But  more  was  to  come— unexpectedly  and  without 
warning. 

It  was  an  ordinary  case  he  was  treating :  brain  sur- 
gery. The  man,  a  wretched  creature,  suffered  se- 
verely, and  was  in  a  broken  state  of  health;  Arm- 
strong had  traced  it  to  brain  pressure,  and  saw  his 
way  easily  to  put  things  right  by  a  cerebral  operation. 
He  was  just  concluding  an  examination,  and  the  pa- 
tient lay  quietly  in  the  great  chair,  soothed  by  a  slight 
injection  of  morphia.  Armstrong  turned  away  to  get 
a  light— it  was  five  o'clock  on  an  autumn  day,  just 
beginning  to  grow  dark— when  suddenly  there  came 
that  strange  grating  "Kr-rk"  in  his  head,  and  he  felt 
the  room  whirl  around  him.  He  clutched  hard  at  a 
table  near  him,  but  it  receded  from  his  grasp  and  he 
felt  himself  falling  down,  down,  down  in  giddy  help- 
lessness. Then  the  movement  stopped,  and  he  felt,  as 
before,  that  some  weight  had  been  lifted  from  his 
brain,  and  a  new,  unused  sense  developed  in  him.  But 
this  time  there  was  no  clear  light,  no  pure  air,  no 
vision. 


180  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

What  was  coming?  Something,  he  felt,  was  in 
Btore— some  strange,  new  revelation— and  he  waited 
eagerly.  As  the  prophets  of  old  were  inspired,  so 
light  had  come  to  him,  and  now  perhaps  he  would 
learn  one  more  secret  of  the  troubled  world. 

But  nothing  came;  all  was  blank  darkness  around 
him,  and  an  uneasy  sense  of  foreboding  stole  slowly 
over  him,  till  his  hand  shook  and  his  face  grew  damp 
with  cold  sweat. 

What  was  that?  A  far-off  mocking  laugh?  And 
•  •  •  0  God  in  heaven!  Not  that  again!  Not 
that/ 

He  tried  to  call  again,  for  pangs  worse  than  of 
death  were  racking  him;  but  something  cold  was 
thrust  into  his  mouth  and  choked  him.  And  then  his 
eyes,  shut  tight  in  the  clenched  agony  of  pain,  opened 
again,  and  he  saw  the  streaming  dungeon  walls,  the 
Bwaying  lamp,  the  masked  torturer,  and  the  grim 
shadow-figure  seated  motionless  on  the  dais  above 
him;  and  his  heart  sank  within  him,  and  he  turned 
sick  and  faint. 

For  one  brief  moment  the  masked  man  turned  away 
—to  heat  his  irons,  perhaps,  or  rest  his  arms,  weary 
of  their  heavy  work- and  all  Armstrong's  spirit  went 
up  in  one  short,  agonised,  burning  prayer,  in  one 
deep,  strenuous  remonstrance. 

"I  have  felt  it  before,"  he  cried.  "I  have  endured 
it  before,  and  I  know  its  meaning.  Must  I  go  through 
all  again?  Have  I  failed  in  my  duty?  Save  me  from 
pain  and  madness  before  it  is  too  late !  0  God  of  cru- 
elty. Pain-giver,  merciless,  wicked,  infernal,  save  me, 
save  me,  preserve  me!" 

His  words,  stifled  by  the  gag,  reached  no  human 
ear;  but  in  the  cell  a  new  presence  was  lurking,  and 
on  his  face  fell  a  hot,  quick  breath. 

A  voice  spoke  in  his  ear,  very  soft  and  gentle  and 
low. 

"You  blaspheme  in  vain,"  it  said;  "God  has  not 
sent  you  this  vision,  but  7." 


DR.  ARMSTRONG.  181 


III. 


The  torture  was  over,  and  Armstrong  waited  qui- 
etly for  the  moment  of  restoration  to  the  world ;  but 
it  did  not  come,  and  a  new  fear  seized  him.  What  if 
he  never  recovered  from  this  state?  As  the  Powers 
of  Good  had  vouchsafed  him  the  first  vision,  so  the 
Powers  of  Evil  had  mocked  him  with  the  second— the 
same  as  the  first,  but  infinitely  more  terrible^  for 
through  the  former  a  subtle  strength  of  will  had  sus- 
tained him,  and  he  had  emerged  from  it  wiser,  hap- 
pier, and  stronger,  whilst  now  he  felt  himself  deserted 
and  unaided,  and  *  *  *  Heavens  above!  What 
would  come  next  1  The  physical  torture  was  over,  but 
now  his  mind  was  on  the  rack,  and  it  was  worse,  far 
worse ! 

The  two  grim  figures  remained  in  the  cell,  motion- 
less as  statues.  A  strange  detachment  of  mind,  a 
mystic  duality  of  self,  was  torturing  Armstrong. 
Here  he  felt  the  pangs  and  achings  of  the  most  terri- 
ble pain;  yet  at  the  same  time  he  knew  that  it  was 
all  unreal,  and  his  thoughts  turned  to  the  world  above 
—his  work,  his  house,  his  friends,  the  very  patient  in 
his  chair,  waiting  and  wondering.  Somewhere  be- 
tween the  two  lay  madness,  and  his  spirit  cried  for 
peace— a  world  all  vision,  or  a  world  all  reality— any- 
thing but  this  perplexing,  torturing  union  of  the  two. 

Quick  as  thought  came  the  answer.  ''Look  around 
before  you  go," 

It  was  the  soft  voice  he  had  heard  before— gentle, 
but  insistent.  But  he  had  seen  too  much  of  that  hate- 
ful cell,  and  he  closed  his  eyes  in  tight  resistance. 

**Look  around,"  said  the  voice,  even  more  gently 
than  before. 

A  shuddering  fear  seized  Armstrong. 

The  spirit  read  his  thoughts.  "You  are  afraid: 
you  dare  not  look  at  me.  But  you  shall  not  see  me. 
Look!" 


182  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  head  and  covered  his  eyes 
with  a  convulsive  movement. 

"Listen!"  said  the  voice.  "You  have  not  even  seen 
your  enemy.     Would  you  not  know  him  ? ' ' 

A  cold  sickness  fell  on  Armstrong's  spirit,  and  he 
shuddered.  Why  see  the  monster  who  had  tortured 
him,  the  human  fiend  who  could  be  nothing  other  than 
repulsive  ? 

Then  the  voice  spoke  again,  more  gently  than  be- 
fore. 

"Listen !  I  am  the  God  of  Evil,  but  I  befriend  you. 
I  pass  my  hand  along  your  frame,  and  the  pain  leaves 
you.  I  touch  your  eyes  with  my  fingers,  and  they 
open.      Look  around!" 

Armstrong  rose,  sound  and  strong.  The  dungeon 
was  dark,  but  in  its  recesses  he  could  see  two  cower- 
ing figures,  striving  to  hide  themselves  from  his  eyes. 
One  was  the  masked  man;  one  was  the  director,  the 
inquisitor,  the  author  of  all  his  misery. 

"See  how  he  hides  from  you,"  whispered  the  voice. 
"But  you  shall  not  be  denied.    Turn!" 

The  sudden  thunder  of  that  last  word  echoed 
through  the  vault,  and  then  there  came  a  short,  sharp, 
double  flash  of  blinding  light.  The  first  flash  showed 
a  crouching,  cowering  figure  in  the  background,  with 
pale,  set  face,  and  cruel  eyes ;  the  second  struck  Arm- 
strong full  in  the  face  and  felled  him  to  the  ground. 
•  ••••«*«• 

Dazed  and  frightened,  as  after  a  hideous  nightmare, 
he  pulled  himself  together.  The  match  he  had  taken 
up  was  still  in  his  hand,  and  he  turned  back,  mas- 
tering himself  with  a  great  effort,  to  his  patient. 

He  lighted  the  big  burner  and  turned  it  full  on  the 
chair.  The  man,  roused  from  the  lethargy  of  morphia, 
slowly  opened  his  eyes. 

Armstrong  staggered  back,  stifling  the  cry  of  hor- 
ror that  rose  to  his  lips ;  for  in  that  one  glance  he  saw, 
clear  and  unmistakable,  the  face  of  his  torturer— re- 
incarnated, but  still  the  same. 


DR.  ARMSTRONG.  183 


IV. 


Armstrong  turned  aside  to  hide  his  excitement.  Af- 
ter all,  then,  the  vision  had  not  been  in  vain :  it  was  the 
complement  of  the  first;  and  now  all  was  clear.  The 
Mystery  of  Human  Pain !  His  own  great  book  on  the 
subject!  He  laughed  aloud.  All  that  thought  and 
time  and  labour  had  been  wasted,  and  here  was  the 
truth,  shown  to  him  in  a  dream— the  truth  that  all  the 
world  should  know.  A  strange  exaltation  filled  Ms 
spirit. 

"/  suffered  pain,  and  now  I  reap  my  reward- 
strong,  happy,  a  healer  of  wounds,  myself  knowing 
no  suffering.  He  inflicted  pain  and  torture,  and  now 
he  suffers  for  it." 

The  patient  in  the  chair  moved  uneasily  and 
groaned.  Armstrong  went  on:  "A  righteous  Judge 
rewards  me  for  what  I  have  undergone,  and  scourges 
him  for  the  evil  he  has  wrought." 

"The  Lord  have  Mercy  on  his  Soul!" 

It  was  a  deep  voice  that  spoke,  the  words  booming 
and  reverberating  like  the  notes  of  heavy  bells.  It 
touched  a  new  chord  in  Armstrong's  mind,  and  sent 
the  blood  throbbing  and  pulsing  through  his  head. 
"The  Lord  have  mercy  on  his  soul!"  Why?  What 
mercy  had  he  had  for  others  ?  And  with  that  the  fury 
of  hate  returned  to  him  and  surged  through  his  veins, 
till  he  felt  himself  more  demon  than  man.  Every 
pang,  every  pain,  every  racking  agony  that  he  had 
suffered  in  those  two  terrible  visions,  returned  to  him 
threefold,  burned  into  his  soul,  branded  on  every  limb 
and  sinew.  Curse  him  with  the  curse  of  the  martyr, 
and  blast  him  with  the  breath  of  his  iniquities ! 

And  then  a  cold,  unnatural  calm  fell  upon  Arm- 
strong, and  his  quivering  hands  grew  steady  and  cun- 
ning as  before. 

It  was  all  so  easy !     The  man  lay  there,  half  con- 


184  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

Bcious— with  enough  sensation  left  to  feel  every  tor- 
ture inflicted  on  him,  but  yet  unable  to  speak  or  groan. 
It  was  a  carefully  managed  anaesthetic,  administered 
just  sufficiently  to  glaze  the  eyes  and  paralyze  the 
tongue,  but  no  more.  And  the  brain  lay  so  near  at 
hand! 

The  mad  fury  of  revenge  had  left  Armstrong,  and 
he  was  cold,  scientific  and  deliberate— no  movement 
hurried,  no  torment  left  untried,  and  all  done  with 
the  mechanical,  even  touch  of  the  skilled  workman. 
A  pang  for  a  pang,  a  stab  for  a  stab,  a  scald  for  a 
scald;  Armstrong  remembered  each  pain  he  had  en- 
dured, and  paid  it  back  threefold.  On  the  subtle 
mechanism  of  the  head  he  played  as  on  a  keyed  instru- 
ment, sending  hot,  shooting  pains,  and  dull,  numbing 
clutches,  to  the  remotest  parts  of  the  wretched  frame. 

All  the  poor  worn  nerves  centered  within  his  grasp, 
and  to  his  eyes  they  were  visible  throughout  their 
hidden  course,  coming  to  one  common  end,  where  he 
grasped  them  as  with  a  handle,  and  turned  and 
ground  and  twisted  and  crushed,  till  they  stretched, 
strained,  groaned  and  quivered  under  his  racking 
touch.  He  hissed  taunting  words  in  his  ears— words 
that  he  knew  could  not  be  answered;  he  mocked  at 
the  helpless  agony.  And  all  the  while  he  watched  the 
blue  lips,  striving  to  curse  and  moan,  but  bound  by 
the  hellish  drug  as  with  a  gag;  and  the  bloodshot, 
straining  eyes,  too  fixed  even  to  appeal;  and  the  dumb 
agony  of  the  whole  wretched  form.  And  a  grim,  silent 
laughter  shook  him. 

But  it  could  not  last  forever :  his  hand  wearied,  and 
his  head  reeled.  He  fell  to  the  ground  in  a  swoon. 
•    •    • 

Bells  were  ringing— light,  airy,  joyous  bells ;  and  he 
roused  himself.  The  bells  grew  slower,  fainter— died 
out  altogether— and  in  their  place  a  voice  was  in  his 
ears,  very  soft  and  low.  What  was  it  saying  1  It  was 
so  faint,  so  indistinct    •    •     • 

"On  your  soul  may  the  Lord  have  mercy!'* 


DR.  ARMSTRONG.  185 

Armstrong  rose  as  from  a  dream.  In  the  chair  lay 
a  shape,  not  mangled,  indeed,  but  pale-faced, 
ehrunken,  distorted,  horrible.  He  bent  his  head  down 
and  listened  to  the  heart ;  there  were  two  feeble  beats, 
a  faint  flicker,  and  then  it  stopped. 

There  was  a  strange  catch  in  the  surgeon's  breath. 
The  room  was  hot  and  close ;  he  pushed  the  curtains 
back,  and  looked  out.  It  was  night  now— a  deep  blue 
sky,  studded  with  a  myriad  stars.  And  one  star  shot 
upwards  in  a  blaze  of  silver  light. 

Armstrong  turned  away,  breathing  heavily.  There 
was  the  body  still,  and  there  were  the  little  instru- 
ments he  had  used. 

The  present  did  not  stir  him,  gave  him  no  thought ; 
but  the  knowledge  of  the  future  was  upon  him,  and 
he  groaned  aloud  in  the  new-born  agony  of  his  soul. 
For  he  knew  what  he  had  done :  it  was  his  chance,  and 
he  had  missed  it ;  it  was  his  trial,  his  ordeal,  and  he 
had  failed  •  •  •  And  in  the  next  life  on  earth  his 
torture  would  be  longer  and  harder  to  bear.  The 
Lord  would  have  no  mercy  on  his  soul. 

D.  L.  B.  S. 


XII 

DR.  WYGRAM'S  SON. 
CHAPTER  I. 


HEN  I  met  Dr.  Clarence  Wygram  a  few  weeks 
ago,  I  had  not  seen  him  for  nearly  fifteen 
years.  We  were  boys  at  school  together,  and 
fast  friends  at  that  time,  but  our  intercourse  since 
then  has  been  very  intermittent.  Since  he  lost  his 
wife  in  Southern  Italy,  many  years  ago,  much  of  his 
life  has  been  spent  abroad,  and,  though  he  is  to  be  seen 
in  London  at  intervals,  I  seldom  catch  a  glimpse  of 
him.  We  do  not  belong  to  the  same  set  in  town,  and 
as,  being  possessed  of  an  ample  fortune,  he  has  never 
engaged  in  practice  as  a  physician,  his  wandering  and 
unoccupied  life  is  little  akin  to  my  own.  We  do,  how- 
ever, meet  occasionally  by  accident,  when  we  talk  over 
old  times,  vow  to  see  more  of  each  other  in  the  future, 
and  then  part  for— perhaps,  other  ten  years.  Such 
acquaintanceships  as  this  of  Wygram  and  myself  are 
the  most  unsatisfactory  of  all— they  can  scarcely  be 
called  friendships.  Life,  in  my  opinion,  is  too  brief 
for  such  unfrequent  greetings.  It  is  important,  how- 
ever, that  I  recall,  for  a  moment,  this  penultimate 
meeting  with  my  old  friend.  It  happened  long  ago, 
but  the  circumstances  are  still  fresh  in  my  memory. 
As  I  have  said,  this  was  our  last  meeting  but  one, 
and  the  date  some  fifteen  years  ago. 

I  was  about  to  travel  to  the  North  by  the  night  mail, 
and  accidently  stumbled  against  Dr.  Wygram  on  the 
crowded  platform  at  Euston.  He  is  always  pleased 
to  be  facetious,  when  we  do  chance  to  see  each  other, 
in  regard  to  our  mutually  altered  appearance  since 

(186) 


DR.  WYGRAM'S  SON.  187 

our  last  meeting,  and  predicts,  in  jocular  fashion,  that, 
ere  long,  we  shall  certainly  pass  without  recognition 
on  either  side.  There  is  some  truth  in  what  he  says, 
yet,  to  judge  by  my  friend's  careworn  and  haggard 
appearance  on  this  occasion,  I  should  say  he  was  aging 
somewhat  faster  than  myself. 

It  seemed  that  we  were  to  be  fellow-travellers.  He 
also  was  going  north,  though  not  so  far  as  myself,  and 
I  willingly  shared  a  compartment,  which  he  had 
already  secured  for  himself  and  liis  son,  a  stripling 
youth,  apparently  about  fourteen.  The  latter  was  re- 
turning to  school  after  the  Easter  Holidays,  and  his 
father  (who,  by  the  way,  is  not  above  the  Cockney 
weakness  of  calling  every  big  school  a  college)  was 
accompanying  him  on  the  journey.  I  remember  that, 
for  the  first  hour  or  two,  we  had  enough  of  conversa- 
tion to  beguile  the  time.  Wygram  had,  of  course,  been 
abroad— I  forget  where,  or  for  how  long,  but  we  were 
quite  agreed— we  always  are,  on  this  point— to  view 
the  simple  fact  of  his  absence  as  being  a  perfectly 
sufficient  and  satisfactory  explanation  of  the  time  that 
has  elapsed  since  our  last  meeting,  however  long  that 
interval  may  be.  After  that,  our  conversation  began 
to  languish.  Our  old  friendship  notwithstanding,  we 
have  really  very  little  in  common.  Having  spent  a 
somewhat  fatiguing  day,  I  felt  disposed  to  doze,  and  I 
believe  that  I  ultimately  slept. 

When  I  awoke,  with  a  start,  we  were  travelling  at 
a  high  rate  of  speed.  On  the  seat  directly  opposite 
to  mine  reclined  my  young  travelling  companion,  ap- 
parently asleep,  the  lamplight  falling  full  upon  his 
upturned  face.  He  seemed  to  all  appearance  not  very 
robust;  I  think  his  father  had  hinted  as  much  to  me 
on  the  platform  before  we  started.  The  boy's  sleep 
was  a  somewhat  restless  one,  and  he  shifted  his  posi- 
tion uneasily,  as,  ever  and  anon,  the  oscillation  of  the 
carriage  half  aroused  him.  As,  only  half  awake  my- 
self, I  sat  drowsily  watching  him,  I  suddenly  became 
aware  that  his  father,  who  was  looking  over  some 


188  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

papers  by  the  aid  of  a  reading  lamp  at  the  farther 
e-nd  of  the  compartment,  seemed  to  wish,  by  a  sign 
that  he  made,  that  I  should  join  him.  The  thought 
struck  me  at  the  time,  that  perhaps  he  desired  some 
conversation  with  me  while  his  son  was  not  a  listener. 
I  accordingly  shifted  my  travelling  rugs,  and  took  a 
seat  opposite  to  that  of  my  old  friend. 

The  impression,  on  my  part,  that  he  did  not  wish  the 
boy  to  overhear  what  he  said  was  partly  confirmed 
when  my  companion  began  the  conversation  in  tones 
so  low  as  to  be  barely  audible  above  the  rattle  of  the 
train.  But  I  confess  that  I  was  somewhat  unprepared 
for  the  substance  of  his  communication,  even  when 
I  did  catch  his  meaning.  At  first,  what  he  said  was 
almost  unintelligible  to  me,  but  at  length  I  contrived 
to  gather,  from  what  he  told  me,  that  some  trouble 
(afiliction,  I  think,  was  the  word  he  used)  had  lately 
overtaken  him,  and  he  seemed,  though  indirectly,  to 
appeal  to  me  for  sympathy  under  his  trial.  The  ap- 
peal, however,  was  entirely  indirect,  as  no  particulars 
were  afforded— at  least,  if  they  were,  I  failed  to  un- 
derstand their  meaning.  Under  these  circumstances, 
I  was  about  to  inquire,  as  delicately  as  I  could,  what 
the  nature  of  his  difficulty  might  be,  when  I  chanced 
to  notice  that,  as  he  spoke,  his  eyes  would  every  now 
and  then  wander  from  looking  in  my  face,  and  turn, 
as  it  were  unconsciously,  in  the  direction  of  his  boy, 
not  apprehensively,  or  as  if  he  were  afraid  of  him  as 
a  listener,  but  gently  and  tenderly,  as  if  in  deep  solici- 
tude on  his  account.  This  being  the  case,  I  forebore  to 
press  the  father  with  questions  which  might  be  con- 
sidered intrusive.  The  trouble  to  which  he  alluded 
was  perhaps  connected  with  the  lad's  future,  perhaps 
with  something  else  concerning  him,  anyhow  the  secret, 
whatever  it  was,  seemed  to  lie  in  that,  or  in  some  other 
equally  delicate  quarter,  for  Dr.  Wygram  did  not  give 
me  any  explicit  details— rather  avoided  doing  so,  with 
a  reticence  quite  unlike  his  customary  frankness.  But 
he  had  a  favour  to  ask  of  me.  It  came  to  that,  in  the 
end. 


DR.  WYGRAM'S  SON.  189 

"You  know,"  he  said  appealingly,  "you  are  my 
oldest  friend— almost  my  only  friend  now,  for  ray 
wandering  life  does  not  gain  me  new  ones,  and  I  beg 
you,  most  earnestly,  to  aid  me,  to  help  me,  in  this 
trouble—  "  Here  he  paused  as  if  about  to  make  some 
disclosure,  then,  checking  himself,  "to  counsel  me, 
when  I  ask  you,  at  a  future  time." 

Of  course,  my  somewhat  pardonable  curiosity  had 
no  further  excuse,  but  I  murmured  that  I  would  be 
very  glad  if,  at  any  time,  I  could  be  of  service  to  him. 
I  added  that  our  old  friendship  justified  such  a  claim 
on  his  part,  and  that,  for  my  own,  I  would  gladly  meet 
it,  when  necessary.  I  confess  I  thought  that  the  re- 
serve accompanying  his  request  was  somewhat  sin- 
gular. 

"Ah,  but  promise!  promise  to  me!"  (he  repeated 
the  word  with  such  passionate  emphasis  as  to  startle 
me) ;  "promise  that  if  I  write  you  at  any  time  and  ask 
you  to  come  to  my  help,  you  will  do  it— wherever  I 
maybe." 

This  last  clause  of  his  request  was  a  tolerably  com- 
prehensive one,  as,  from  the  doctor's  well-known  mi- 
gratory habits,  the  summons  might  possibly  be  indited 
from  Mongolia,  or  the  farthest  recesses  of  Crim-Tar- 
tary.  But  to  pacify  him,  for  I  saw  that  my  old  friend 
was  strangely  perturbed,  I  said  that  I  would  do  what 
he  wished,  at  any  time,  if  I  could ;  which  latter  clause 
covered  the  aforesaid  difficulty  so  far.  He  seemed 
relieved  by  my  assurance.    His  manner  grew  calmer. 

"I  cannot  tell  you  more  just  at  present,"  he  said 
(this  with  a  glance  at  the  boy),  "except  that  I  am  in 
sore  trouble,  from  which,  at  another  time,  not  now,  the 
counsel  of  a  friend  may  relieve  me.  It  concerns  one 
near  and  dear  to  me"  (ah!  then  the  secret  did  lie 
there),  "and  you  are  the  only  one  I  could  trust.  Per- 
haps, in  time,  my  trouble  may  be  dissipated"  (this 
with  a  hopeless,  sickly  smile),  "and  then  you  will  be 
glad  I  have  not  bored  you  with  it,  but  if  not,  and  if 
I  seek  fulfilment  of  your  promise,  remember !"  With 
which  words  he  abruptly  broke  off  the  conversation. 


190  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

Shortly   afterwards   my   fellow-travellers   reached 
their  destination.     Dr.   "Wygram  had,  by  this  time, 
completely  recovered  his  vivacity.    When  wishing  me 
good-bye,  a  silent  pressure  of  the  hand,  more  pro- 
longed than  usual,  alone  betrayed  any  recollection,  on 
his  part,  of  our  midnight  conversation.     I  did  not  re- 
cover my  own  equanimity  so  rapidly;  the  interview 
came  back  upon  me,  as  I  sat  alone  for  the  rest  of  the 
journey,  somewhat  too  vividly  for  that.     A  nameless 
uneasiness  possessed  me.     I  wearied  myself  with  possi- 
ble explanations  of  AVygram  's  alleged  troubles.  Money 
difficulties  were  out  of  the  question  in  the  case  of  one 
so  well  off  as  he,  so  simple  and  unostentatious  in  his 
mode  of  life,  and  he  would  be  the  last  man  to  gamble. 
His  son— pooh !     The  birch  was  the  best  cure  for  boy- 
ish peccadilloes,  and  he  would  get  that  on  going  back 
to  school.     Still,  reason  with  myself  as  I  might,  Dr. 
Wygram 's  nameless  trouble  remained  with  me;  the 
boy's  sleeping  face  in  the  lamplight,   the   father's 
urgent  entreaty  "remember,"  these  did  not  pass  away. 
After  all,  I  would  reproach  myself  for  having  prom- 
ised to  obey  the  summons  of  my  friend  whenever  it 
might  come ;  how  awkward  that  might  be !  Why  could 
not  he,  if  so  anxious  for  my  counsel,  arrange  to  come 
to  me  ?    Altogether,  it  was  not  until  several  days  had 
elapsed  that  I  shook  off  the  disagreeable  impression 
left  by  the  journey.    As  for  Dr.  Wygram 's  possible 
summons,  I  looked  for  that,  more  or  less  confidently, 
for  several  months,  then  my  expectation  of  its  coming 
began  to  fade.    As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  did  come  after 
all,  but  not  for  fifteen  years.     Then  it  came  upon  this 
wise.    I  had  been  from  home  for  some  days.     On  re- 
turning, a  pile  of  letters  awaited  me.     Sorting  them 
over  one  by  one,  the  last  in  the  heap  was  addressed 
in  an  unmistakable  handwriting.     "  Wygram 's  sum- 
mons at  last,"  I  said  to  myself,  as  the  mist  of  the 
years  rolled  away  and  I  was  once  more  travelling 
northwards  in  the  train ;  once  more  my  friend 's  voice 
in  my  ear,  * '  remember ! ' '  once  more  the  lamplight  on 
his  son's  sleeping  face. 


DR.  WYGRAM'S  SON.  191 

Opening  the  letter,  I  read  as  follows:— 

Low  Tor  Cottage,  by  Liskeard,  Cornwall, 
Sept.  3, 188—. 
Dear  F. :— Remember  promise  given  long  ago.  Pray 
come  as  soon  as  possible!  Thine 

Claeence  Wygram. 
In  the  circumstances,  what  could  I  do  but  make  ar- 
rangements, as  speedily  as  I  could,  to  keep  my  prom- 
ise ?    Within  twenty-four  hours  I  was  on  my  way  to 
Cornwall. 


122  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMy. 


CHAPTER  11. 


GIG  awaited  my  arrival  at  the  nearest  railway 
station,  and  a  short  drive  brought  me  to  Low 
Tor  Cottage.  Dr.  Wygram  met  me  at  tne 
door.  Considering  the  lapse  of  years  since  our  last 
interview,  1  was,  of  course,  prepared  to  find  my  friend 
looking  much  older;  but  I  was  scarcely  prepared  tc 
Bee  nim  so  utterly  feeble-looking  and  broken,  alike, 
apparently,  with  age  and  sorrow,  as  when  he  greeted 
me  in  the  doorway.  He  bade  me  welcome  in  hurried 
nervous  tones ;  evidently  he  laboured  under  the  influ- 
ence of  suppressed  emotion.  We  entered  the  sitting- 
room:  the  dinner-table  was  set  for  two  persons  only. 
He  apologized  for  his  secluded  quarters,  and  the  hum- 
ble arrangements  of  his  household.  '  *  I  have  only  been 
here  for  a  month  or  two,"  he  explained,  "since  my 
return  from  the  Continent."  A  staid,  elderly  maid- 
servant here  entered  the  room.  It  was,  of  course,  too 
early  for  any  confidential  talk  between  my  host  and 
myself;  and,  as  the  servant  waited  upon  us  during 
dinner,  anything  but  commonplaces  were  out  of  the 
question.  I  judged  from  what  I  saw,  however,  that 
Dr.  Wygram  was  living  alone;  perhaps  it  was  better 
BO.  Our  intercourse  would  be  the  more  unrestrained. 
Somehow,  I  do  not  know  how  it  happened,  I  was  the 
first  to  break  the  ice,  upon  the  question  of  the  object 
of  my  visit.  And  this  prematurely,  in  fact  within 
half  an  hour  of  my  arrival.  Now  I  had  mentally 
cautioned  myself,  on  the  way  down,  against  precipi- 
tate allusions  to  the  purpose  of  my  coming ;  yet,  as  it 
chanced,  I  stumbled  upon  the  delicate  topic,  unawares, 
before  the  servant  had  left  us  to  our  wine.  It  was, 
then,  on  his  son's  account  that  Dr.  Wygram  sought 
my  presence  here.  As  much  I  gathered  from  his  si- 
lence, sudden  and  pained,  when  I  made  the  remark. 


DR.  WYGRAM'S  SON.  193 

Of  course  after  this,  and  until  we  were  alone  together, 
I  turned  the  conversation  into  other  channels,  in  what 
I  fear  must  have  seemed  a  very  clumsy  fashion.  My 
host  grew  more  and  more  absent  and  distrait.  When 
at  length  we  drew  our  chairs  near  the  fire,  for  the 
autumn  evenings  were  growing  chilly,  he  had  not 
opened  his  lips  for  some  minutes.  I  was  quite  unpre- 
pared for  what  was  to  come.  No  sooner  were  we 
alone,  than,  in  his  attempt  to  speak,  he  burst  into 
tears.  It  was  long  before  he  regained  his  composure. 
At  first  all  he  could  utter  was  a  renewal  of  his  thanks 
to  me  for  coming  to  see  him  in  his  loneliness— his 
worse  than  lonely  life,  as  he  termed  it. 

I  could  make  nothing  of  all  this,  but  I  endeavoured 
to  assure  him  of  my  earnest  desire  to  help  him,  if  only 
he  would  frankly  confide  in  me  as  his  friend.  It  was 
pitiful  to  see  how,  even  after  this  invitation,  it  pained 
him  to  make  any  avowal.  He  sank  into  a  reverie  for 
a  few  momenta,  then,  quickly  rising  to  his  feet  and 
laying  a  hand  on  my  shoulder,  said:— 

*  *  I  will  show  you  my  sorrow,  my  friend,  rather  than 
speak  of  it  myself.  What  I  show  you  will  speak  for 
itself,  for  all  words  are  vain." 

So  saying,  he  motioned  me  to  follow  him,  and  led 
the  way  from  the  room,  carrying  with  him  a  small 
shaded  lamp. 

When  we  entered  an  adjoining  apartment  the  shad- 
ows there  were  so  dense,  and  the  light  we  had  with 
us  was  so  feeble,  that,  for  some  moments,  I  could  dis- 
cern nothing.  A  dull  fire  smouldered  in  the  grate, 
but  shed  no  light  on  the  interior  of  the  room,  which 
seemed  furnished  as  a  small  parlour.  There  was  a 
large  sofa  at  the  farther  end,  and  someone  lay  upon 
it  covered  with  rugs.  Dr.  Wygram  held  the  light  a 
little  lower,  the  rays  fell  upon  an  upturned  face,  that 
of  a  boy  apparently  asleep.  I  started,  for  was  it  not 
the  self-same  face  upon  which  the  flickering  light  of 
a  railway  carriage  lamp  had  fallen  so  many  years  be-, 
foret  The  very  same,  in  every^  lineament,  ^nothingj 
was  changed. 

2—13 


194  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

I  am  not  naturally  quick  in  coining  to  a  conclusion. 
Things  dawn  upon  me  now  even  more  slowly  than  of 
old.  I  was  startled  for  the  moment,  nothing  more; 
though  a  creeping  horror  moved  already  towards  my 
heart,  I  had  not  felt  its  actual  touch, 

"That  is  my  sorrow,"  said  the  father,  turning  to 
me,  without  diverting  the  rays  of  the  lamp  from  his 
son 's  face ;  then,  without  another  word,  motioned  me 
to  follow  him  out.  I  did  so.  The  shadows  fell  once 
more  upon  the  sleeper,  even  as  the  shadows  of  the 
years  had  fallen,  till  that  moment,  upon  my  recollec- 
tion of  his  features. 

On  a  sudden  the  full  significance  of  what  I  had  seen 
rushed  upon  me. 

"Great  God!"  I  cried,  "what  is  this,  Wygram? 
Speak!" 

We  were  in  the  corridor  now,  and  he  did  not  return 
an  answer.  We  re-entered  the  lighted  room.  My  pa- 
tience gave  way. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,"  I  said,  "Wygram,  tell  me 
what  is  the  meaning  of  this !  How  is  your  son— the 
boy  sleeping  yonder— the  same,  unchanged—  ?"  The 
query  died  upon  my  lips,  for  he  to  whom  I  spoke  was 
pale  as  ashes.  I  read  the  answer  of  my  inarticulate 
question,  there  and  then,  in  his  face.  By  virtue  of 
some  nightmare  spell,  the  boy  I  had  seen  so  many  years 
before,  the  boy,  who  by  this  time  should  have  been  a 
grown  man,  was  slumbering,  still  a  boy,  in  the  room 
we  had  just  quitted. 

They  say  that  when,  in  dreams,  an3rthing  manifestly 
absurd  or  inconsistent  presents  itself,  the  dreamer  at 
once  awakes.  In  the  sitting-room  of  the  cottage  that 
night,  seated  beside  my  old  friend,  how  often  did  I 
think  myself  dreaming,  and  long  for  the  moment  of 
waking  to  be  precipitated  by  the  seeming  contradic- 
tion I  had  just  witnessed !  For  some  time  neither  of 
us  spoke.  Dr.  Wygram  sat  motionless  with  the  blank 
and,  as  it  were,  featureless  expression  on  his  counte- 
nance which  I  have  so  often  seen  sudden  calamity  im- 


DR.  WYGRAM'S  SON.  195 

part.  Yet  his  affliction,  new  and  inexplicable  to  me 
as  yet,  must  have  become  familiar  enough  to  himself. 
After  all,  jt  must  have  been  its  first,  its  only  revelation 
to  another,  which,  as  it  were,  reawakened  himself  to 
a  sense  of  its  utter  bewilderment  and  hopelessness. 
And  to  me  (of  all  men)  he  had  turned  for  help,  for 
counsel,  in  circumstances  so  astounding !  What  could 
I  do?  My  own  brain  was  in  a  whirl.  The  sense  of 
wonderment  once  past,  a  painful  search  for  possible 
explanation  succeeded— explanation  of  what?  That 
was  the  puzzling  difficulty.  A  problem  was  before  me, 
but,  from  lack  of  all  precedent,  the  conditions  of  effec- 
tual presentation  were  wanting.  How,  then,  attempt 
the  solution? 

It  must  have  arisen,  I  suppose,  from  the  mental  con- 
fusion under  which  I  laboured  that  I  can  give  no  very 
lucid  account  of  what  immediately  followed.  I  can- 
not tell  at  what  period  of  the  evening  the  silent  cur- 
rent of  our  several  thoughts  flowed  into  a  stream  of 
conversation.  But  I  reproduce  here  the  substance  of 
Dr.  Wygram's  narrative,  in  his  own  words,  as  far  as 
possible,  omitting  some  details  not  germane  to  the  nar- 
rative. 

''My  son,"  commenced  Dr.  Wygram,  ''inherited 
his  mother's  malady,  that  which  in  her  case  proved 
fatal,  pulmonary  consumption.  The  unmistakable 
symptoms  developed  themselves  in  him  at  an  early  age. 
All  the  so-called  remedies  had  been  tried  without  avail. 
Humanly  speaking,  my  boy  was  doomed,  my  house 
was  apparently  to  be  left  unto  me  desolate.  At  first 
I  was  in  despair,  a  despair  lightened  to  me  at  last, 
however,  by  a  gleam  of  hope.  You  are  aware  that  I 
have  devoted  my  life  to  the  study  rather  than  the  prac- 
tice of  medicine.  Being  untrammelled  with  regular 
avocations,  I  have  been  enabled  to  explore,  more  fully 
than  many  of  my  professional  brethren,  what  may  be 
called  the  by-paths  of  study— those  less  explored 
tracks  which  are  open  to  the  medical  scientist  who  is, 
by  training,  a  chemist  as  well.    The  practice  of  scien- 


196  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

tific  medicine,  among  us  in  this  country,  at  all  events, 
is  in  its  infancy,  although  many,  whose  interest  it  is 
to  conceal  the  fact,  will  assure  you  to  the  contrary. 
If  any  proof  were  needed  of  my  assertion,  the  lame 
and  halting  methods  in  use  at  the  present  day  would 
suffice.  The  insufferable  greed  for  money  so  shame- 
lessly manifested  renders  the  modern  practitioner  only 
a  better-class  charlatan.  Their  failures  are  so  gross, 
their  expedients  to  conceal  these  failures  so  unblush- 
ing, that  I  have  long  recommended  an  adoption  by  the 
public  of  the  Chinese  system.  The  far-seeing  Celes- 
tials only  pay  their  medical  adviser  when  they  are 
perfectly  well.  When  they  fall  sick  his  pay  stops  till 
he  can  restore  them  to  health. 

**But  there  is  a  second,  and  a  higher  path,  known 
only  to  a  few,  and  these  enthusiasts,  careless  of  the 
rewards  of  the  crowd.  It  is  but  a  dim  and  perilous 
way  at  the  best— it  is  easier  to  deride  those  who  at- 
tempt to  traverse  it  than  to  follow  them.  The  herd  of 
the  profession  eschew  it  for  the  most  part.  Present- 
day  materialists  will  have  nothing,  accept  nothing, 
which  cannot  be  seen,  tasted,  handled,  brayed  in  a 
mortar,  fitting  fate  for  themselves  as  purblind  fools! 
See  how  reluctantly,  how  incredulously,  the  results  of 
even  such  a  coarsely  unmistakable  remedy  as  electric- 
ity are  received  by  the  profession.  Yet  electrical  en- 
ergy, in  medicine,  is  a  clumsy  weapon  compared  with 
others  in  the  armoury  of  transcendentalism.  There 
are  blades  infinitely  keener  for  the  expert— viewless 
brands,  wielded  by  few— the  peerless  Excalibur  itself, 
kno^v^l  to  still  fewer- for  its  point  of  a  truth  turneth 
every  way,  to  guard  the  path  to  the  Tree  of  Life." 
Here  he  shuddered,  but  after  a  pause  went  on :  "These 
higher  methods  have  their  risks,  their  inseparable  dan- 
gers. Remember  that  experiment  must  at  last  be 
made  upon  the  living,  human,  subject.  Demonstra- 
tion upon  a  score  of  tortured  puppies  will  not  avail. 
Is  it  a  wonder  that  the  crude  experimentalist,  great  at 
the  torture  trough,  and  brave  in  its  cruelties,  recoils 


DR.  JVYGRAM'S  SON.  197 

when  the  higher  issue  is  at  stake  ?  But  as  I  said,  my 
boy  was  doomed,  save,  as  I  hoped,  in  the  last  resort 
of  transcendentalism.  That  last  resort  I  tried,  but  not 
until  numberless  trials  in  the  laboratory  had  convinced 
me  that  my  method  must  avail.  I  had  discounted 
every  possibility  of  failure.  So  long  did  I  delay  that 
the  lamp  of  life  had  almost,  with  him,  burned  to  the 
socket.  But  I  was  wary ;  I  knew  well  that  the  step  I  was 
about  to  take  was  an  irrevocable  one,  and  my  chief 
anxiety  was  to  prevent  a  possible  miscarriage  of  conse- 
quences. My  plan,  in  short,  promised  to  secure  for  one, 
already  within  sight  of  death's  portal,  a  lease  of  life 
prolonged— by  how  many  months  or  years  I  could  not 
tell— that  question  lay  in  darkness,  but  at  least  pro- 
longed beyond  what  I  could  reasonably  expect  consid- 
ering his  condition.  A  growth  of  new  vital  force — 
which  yet  was  not  a  growth— everything  pointed  the 
other  way,  let  me  say  a  stock,  was  to  be  grafted  into 
the  decaying  and  wasting  organism,  permanent  in  its 
character,  constant,  without  flux  or  reflux.  But  (ah! 
that  hut  which  mars  all  that  blooms  and  hopes!),  like 
all  gifts  added  from  without,  unlike  all  properties 
resident  within,  it,  the  gift,  had  an  imperfection,  a 
Btrange,  deadly,  and  irremediable  fault.  It  grew  not, 
progressed  not,  aged  not  (do  not  start !) ;  and  this,  its 
thrice-accursed  property,  was  so  malignantly,  so  dev- 
ilishly potent,  beyond  hope  of  elimination  or  reduc- 
tion, that  it  subdued  unto  itself  whatsoever  it  touched 
or  joined.  Life  preserved  under  its  influence  would 
be  preserved,  not  in  activity  but  as  it  were  in  arrest- 
ment, in  default  of  needed  repair,  or  rather  with  a  sub- 
tle supply  and  repair  of  its  own  so  elusive  as  to  evade 
detection. 

"Thus,"  continued  Dr.  Wygram— ''thus,  with  all 
my  caution,  I  erred— erred  as  all  do,  misled  by  some 
devil's  wile,  who  work  against  the  gods.  Fool  that  I 
was,  my  own  caution  deceived  me,  and  that  lying 
legend  of  him  who  sought  for  immortality,  but  forgot 
the  advent  of  old  age.    But  it  is  past  now;  others 


198  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

would  have  slipped  on  that  insuperable  threshold 
where  I  fell.  I  exulted  in  the  thought  that  my  boy- 
would  drink  of  the  water  of  life  and  so  defy  the  kill- 
ing years — but  I  forgot  that  he  was  not  yet  a  man — 
knew  not  that  I  was  condemning  him  to  a  life  of  imma- 
turity. Hurry  misled  me  at  the  last.  Before  I  knew 
it,  he  was  almost  gone— then  I  took  the  irrevocable 
step.  It  was  well  that  I  worked  in  secret.  No  eye 
but  mine  saw  him  as  (oh,  wondrous  change!)  he  rose 
from  his  sick-bed  with  an  assured  gift  of  life  in  every 
limb  and  pulse,  so  sudden  and  startling  that  I  dreaded 
the  coming  of  life 's  angel  almost  as  much  as  I  had  the 
advent  of  him  of  death.  For  a  time,  I  say,  I  would 
almost,  unknowing,  have  undone  that  which  had  been 
done— but  that  stage  passed,  and  I  only  watched  and 
waited. ' ' 

Dr.  Wygram  paused.  Was  it  fancy  that  as  he  did 
so  I  thought  I  heard  a  light  footstep  in  the  room  above 
us  ?  The  speaker  did  not  seem  to  notice  it,  but  went 
on:— 

*  *  For  a  time  I  knew  no  fear,  that  I  had  erred  I  did 
not  know,  as  yet.  For  months  he  advanced  in  growth 
towards  manhood.  Then  the  spell  began  to  work  its 
hellish  will.  As  he  was  then,  as  he  is  now,  so  will  he 
ever  be.  A  blight  fell  upon  him,  a  chill  mildew  rained 
itself  upon  the  issues  of  his  life.  A  true  death  in  life 
is  his,  for  life  hasteth  to  fruition  and  then  falls ;  but 
this  existence,  with  which  I  have  dowered  him,  con- 
tinues changeless,  dateless,  ageless,  as  the  years  of  the 
Everlasting.  I  tell  thee,"  screamed  the  father,  as  he 
sprang  to  his  feet  in  a  frenzy  of  uncontrollable  horror 
— "I  tell  thee  my  boy  will  never  die !" 

Overmastered  by  the  contagion  of  his  excitement,  I 
too  had  risen  from  my  seat.  As  we  faced  each  other 
in  silence,  a  breathing  murmur  rose  on  the  air,  form- 
less at  first,  then  died  away.  Again  a  hushed  mur- 
mur, then  a  crash  of  chords  from  an  instrument  in  the 
room  above.  He  of  whom  we  spoke  was  playing 
Chopin's  Marche  Funebre." 


DR.  WYGRAM'S  SON.  199 


CHAPTER  III. 

NEED  not  enter  into  the  details  of  my  stay 
at  Low  Tor  Cottage,  even  if  I  were  able  to  re- 
produce them  with  correctness.  My  residence 
there  was,  to  me,  a  prolonged  nightmare,  with  all  hope 
of  an  awakening  denied  me.  Dr.  Wygram  had  so 
completely  surrendered  himself  to  despair  as  to  be  in- 
capable of  making  any  effort.  It  would  have  been  a 
positive  relief  to  myself  had  I  been  able  to  have  con- 
sidered him  insane,  and  the  mystery  before  me  a  de- 
lusion springing  from  that  cause.  But  that  conclu- 
sion was  shut  out  most  effectually  by  my  own  personal 
testimony  (of  which  he  always  eagerly  availed  him- 
self) as  to  his  son's  identity,  and  his  practically  un- 
altered condition  after  an  interval  of  so  many  years. 
I  had  every  opportunity  of  assuring  myself  on  tJiis 
point.  Young  Wygram,  though  shy  and  backward, 
preferring  to  mope  in  solitude,  was  our  companion 
after  a  day  or  two.  But  he  never  seemed  wholly  at 
ease,  would  not  join  in  any  sustained  conversation,  and 
had  an  apathetic  listlessness  about  him  which  was  posi- 
tively repellent.  It  was  vain  to  try  to  arouse  either 
father  or  son  from  the  overwhelming  depression  into 
which  both  had  apparently  sunk.  Some  melancholy 
drives  we  took  together  in  a  pony  phaeton  through 
the  solitudes  of  West  Cornwall  did  not  enliven  us 
much.  It  is  a  haunted  land  at  its  best,  with  its  rolling 
moorlands,  and  its  mystic  Dosmery  Pool,  fabled  as 
ebbing  and  flowing  in  its  silent  depths  in  sympathy 
with  the  tides  of  the  distant  sea.  As  day  after  day 
slipped  away,  I  began  to  feel  myself  as  partaking  of 
my  friend 's  hopelessness.  Yet,  if  I  hinted  the  useless- 
ness  of  continuing  with  him,  he  would  become  almost 
frantic.  As  he  pathetically  repeated  to  me,  I  was  his 
only  friend,  the  only  one  to  whom  he  could  confide  his 


200  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

sorrows,  so  insupportable  when  borne  alone.  Gradu- 
ally lie  persuaded  me,  on  one  point,  against  my  better 
judgment.  It  was  finally  agreed  between  us  that  ere 
I  left  some  steps  should  be  taken  on  his  part  to  en- 
deavour to  obtain  a  reversal,  or  part  reversal  rather, 
of  the  conditions  under  which  'his  son  laboured  (I  use 
the  periphrasis  as  the  plain  words  to  me  are  unspeak- 
ably painful),  by  something  of  the  same  methods  by 
which  they  had  been  compassed.  The  prospect  to  me 
was  very  distasteful,  indeed  revolting,  nor  did  Dr. 
Wygram's  laboured  explanations  convey  much  infor- 
mation to  my  non-professional  mind.  It  is  useless  to 
detail  them  here,  they  would  be  intelligible  only  to  the 
expert.  But  I  could  not  deny  him  what  he  asked.  I 
fancy  his  wish  was  to  secure  some  witness  of  his  own 
moral  innocency,  should  any  untoward  accident  hap- 
pen. I  cannot  blame  him;  indeed,  I  think  he  would 
have  been  justified  in  taking  almost  any  steps,  short 
of  taking  his  son's  life,  in  the  unparalleled  circum- 
stances of  the  ca?e. 

And  the  time  was  short.  That  was  another  per- 
plexity. The  constant  state  of  nervous  apprehension 
which  overcame  Dr.  Wygram  whenever  his  residence 
in  one  place  lasted  any  time,  pointed,  of  itself,  to  the 
necessity  of  making  haste.  Perhaps  he  magnified  this 
difficulty;  I  cannot  say.  But  there  was  something 
about  their  retired  life  which  seemed  likely  to  invite 
gossiping  curiosity,  in  a  country  district  more  espe- 
cially. That  the  neighbours  had  already  questioned 
him  as  to  the  nature  of  his  son's  delicacy  he  assured 
me  over  and  over  again.  What  could  they  mean? 
'*He  has  been  watched,"  the  father  would  say,  excit- 
edly. "We  have  already  been  here  too  long.  They  no- 
tice his  unaltered  appearance  since  our  arrival.  A 
growing  lad,  such  as  he  appears,  would  have  made 
some  progress  in  the  time,  and  they  notice  that  he  does 
not— nor  ever  will,"  he  would  add  bitterly,  "unless 
my  last  efforts  should  prove  successful."  It  was  idle 
to  try  to  reason  him  out  of  these  fears— for  all  I  knew 


DR.  WYGRAM'S  SON.  201 

they  might  be  real.  It  was  pitiful  to  think  how  long 
they  had  possessed  him,  during  many  weary  years. 
When  I  had  met  himself  and  his  son  fifteen  years  be- 
fore, they  were,  even  then,  travelling  as  fugitives  from 
place  to  place  to  avoid  detection ;  still  more  harrowing 
to  think  that,  in  the  father's  case,  from  his  rapidly 
aging  look  and  growing  feebleness,  these  wanderings 
must  soon  cease.  Of  his  son's  fate,  in  that  overwhelm- 
ing contingency,  I  could  never  trust  myself  to  think. 
The  thought  of  it  often  overcame  Dr.  Wygram  him- 
self. He  told  me  once,  that  on  one  occasion,  when 
abroad,  the  terror  of  this  self-same  prospect  so  un- 
manned him  that  he  had  attempted  to  confide  in  a 
brother  practitioner,  an  Englishman,  resident,  I  think, 
in  Milan.  **Like  most  countrymen  of  his  craft 
abroad,"  said  my  poor  friend  bitterly,  "he  proved  to 
be  utterly  incredulous.  I  might  have  known  it,  before 
exposing  myself  to  his  coarse  ridicule.  The  line  of 
my  studies  has  been  so  utterly  outside  the  old  groove 
of  pill  and  bolus,  lancet  and  catheter,  it  is  little  won- 
der that  the  crowd  will  have  none  of  its  results.  This 
professional  brother  only  laughed  in  my  face,  rubbed 
his  hands  in  glee,  as  at  a  good  joke,  asking  me  if  I 
would  not  part  with  my  recipe  for  a  consideration, 
seeing  he  had  some  half-dozen  youngsters  of  his  own 
whose  growing  powers  added  to  the  tailor's  bill.  Eng- 
lish medical  men  are  proverbially  obtuse,  but  for  the 
full  development  of  their  sheer  obstinancy  and  mulish- 
ness  they  should  be  transplanted  to  the  soil  which  gave 
birth  to  transcendentalism. ' ' 

It  was  a  breathless  autumn  evening  when,  in  my 
presence.  Dr.  Wygram  commenced  his  second  experi- 
ment with  his  son.  The  dim  scent  of  the  shrubberies 
stole  in  through  the  open  windows— over  which  the 
blinds  were  drawn.  On  a  couch  in  the  centre  of  the 
room  lay  young  Wygram  in  a  deep  slumber,  super- 
induced by  an  opiate  which  his  father  had  adminis- 
tered, to  aid  the  further  stages  of  the  treatment.  A 
brass  chafing  dish  lay  upon  the  floor,  containing  some 


202  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

smouldering  embers;  from  a  tripod  upon  the  table 
hung  a  small  retort  of  crimson  glass  which  glowed  like 
a  ruddy  gem  in  the  flickering  light  of  the  spirit  lamp 
underneath. 

With  arms  stripped  bare  to  the  elbows,  Dr.  Wygram 
bent  over  his  son,  watching  the  depth  of  unconscious- 
ness in  which  the  latter  was  immersed.  For  nearly  an 
hour  my  friend  had  not  spoken  a  word.  I  did  not 
wish  to  interrupt  him,  but  I  saw  by  his  manner  at 
length  that  the  critical  moment  had  arrived.  He 
turned  to  me  at  last,  and  in  a  broken  whisper  told  me 
that  a  few  moments  longer  would  decide  his  success 
or  failure.  "We  shall  now,  I  trust,"  he  said,  "have 
insight  granted  us  in  regard  to  a  hitherto  hidden 
mystery. ' ' 

I  do  not  know  whether  he  ever  obtained  the  insight 
in  question,  but  I  know  that  it  was  never  granted  to 
me.  For,  at  that  moment,  loud  voices  were  heard  in 
the  corridor.  The  door  was  unceremoniously  thrown 
open,  and  three  men  entered  the  room.  Their  leader, 
a  puffy,  red-faced  individual,  fixed  me  with  his  glitter- 
ing eye  from  the  moment  of  his  coming  into  the  room. 
"That  is  the  man!"  he  said,  to  his  subordinates, 
pointing,  at  the  same  time,  to  me  as  I  stood  irresolute. 
A  sudden  panic  possessed  me  that  instant.  To  es- 
cape by  the  door  was  impossible,  as  the  men  stood 
beside  it,  but  the  window  behind  me  was  handy.  I 
turned,  lifted  the  blind,  and  precipitately  jumped  into 
the  garden  a  few  feet  below.  I  do  not  believe  that  I 
ever  ran  so  fast  in  my  life  as  I  did  on  that  occasion 
through  the  mazes  of  the  shrubbery.  My  one  frantic 
desire  was  to  get  away  at  all  hazards  from  that  dread- 
ful dwelling,  though  from  what  I  fled  I  could  not  have 
told.  I  only  knew  that  horror,  the  accumulated  hor- 
ror, of  the  past  weeks,  compressed  into  the  moment, 
possessed  me  to  my  very  heels.  A  wretched  dog 
prowling  about  the  garden  gave  chase  to  me  as  I  fled, 
under  the  impression  that  I  was  making  off  with  some 
portable  property  belonging  to  the  establishment ;  but 


DR.  WY GRAM'S  SON.  203 

Jlsoon  left  him  far  behind,  and  I  do  not  think  that  the 
men  joined  in  the  pursuit,  beyond  the  limits  of  the 
couage,  if,  indeed,  they  followed  me  at  all.  In  my 
terror  I  never  looked  behind,  but  ran  through  fields, 
hedges,  and  ditches  till  I  arrived,  breathless  and  hat- 
less,  at  the  nearest  railway  station.  The  officials 
seemed  somewhat  surprised  at  the  appearance  I  pre- 
senied,  but  I  got  a  ticket  without  question,  and  was 
soon  seated  in  a  railway  carriage  on  my  way  to 
London. 

These  memoranda,  written  after  a  long  period  of 
nervous  prostration,  must  be  published,  if  for  my  own 
exculpation  alone.  Shortly  after  their  committal  to 
paper,  a  longing  curiosity  impelled  me  to  inquire  as 
to  the  fate  of  my  old  friend.  I  had  promised  not  to 
desert  him,  and  that  promise  I  had  scarcely  kept.  At 
all  hazards,  then,  I  resolved  to  go  to  Cornwall  once 
more,  even  if  by  doing  so,  I  should  fall  into  the  hands 
of  the  authorities,  as  I  doubted  not  he  had  done.  At 
all  events,  my  own  innocency  was  beyond  question. 

On  the  Paddington  platform  my  apprehensions  in 
this  latter  respect  were  redoubled.  A  young  man 
standing  beside  me,  when  I  was  taking  out  my  ticket, 
certainly  eyed  me  very  narrowly. 

*  *  One  of  the  minions  of  the  law, ' '  I  said  to  myself ; 
''the  affair  has  got  wind  after  all."  As  I  was  about 
to  take  my  seat  he  came  forward  and  asked  if  he  had 

the  pleasure  of  addressing  Mr.  F of  Blank  Street. 

Resolved  to  brazen  it  out  to  the  last,  I  admitted  my 
identity. 

"You  are  acquainted  with  Dr.  Wygram,  I  think?" 
he  continued,  interrogatively. 

I  owned  that  I  was.  Denial,  at  this  stage,  would 
have  been  useless. 

' '  I  am  his  son, ' '  he  said  smilingly. 

"His  son!"  I  gasped.  Then,  after  all,  Dr. 
Wygram 's  second  experiment  had  succeeded,  and  he 
who  was  before  me  had  been  freed  from  the  spell  of 


201  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

his  youth.  Yes,  there  was  no  doubt  of  it!  He  was 
now  a  man !  "  Is  it  possible  ? "  I  repeated,  gazing  at 
him  with  astonishment. 

"I  think  there  is  no  doubt  of  it,"  he  replied  coolly. 
*  *  You  will  be  sorry  to  learn  that  my  father  is  far  from 
well,"  he  resumed.  "I  have  been  from  home  for  a 
long  time,  but  am  just  going  down  to  see  him,  in  Corn- 
waU." 

'  *  Just  going  down  to  see  him  ? ' '  This  was  mystery 
upon  mystery. 

"My  dear  sir,"  I  said  in  despair,  **I  am  very  sorry 
indeed  to  hear  of  your  father's  illness,  but  would  you 
kindly  answer  me  one  question  as  distinctly  as  you 
can.  If  you  are  Dr.  Wygram's  son,  how  is  it  that 
you  do  not  remember  me  ? " 

"I  do  now  most  distinctly,"  he  replied.  "I  re- 
member travelling  with  you  and  my  father,  many 
years  ago,  when  I  was  going  to  school  in  the  North." 

Heavens !  Then  all  the  years,  since  then,  had  been 
a  blank  to  him ! 

"Have  you  no  recollection,"  I  suggested,  "of  hav- 
ing been  with  your  father  since  then,  a  short  time  ago, 
in  Cornwall?" 

"Ah!  that  is  my  brother,"  he  quickly  returned. 
"Yes,  he  was  with  my  father,  when  he  took  ill— been 
with  him  too  long,  in  fact,  for  the  good  of  either.  My 
father,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  has  for  some  time  been  quite 
unhinged  mentally. ' ' 

I  should  think  he  has,  was  my  inward  comment,  for 
I  saw  it  all  in  a  moment.  There  were  two  young 
Wygrams;  both  of  these  I  had  seen  when  they  were 
youngsters  of  the  same  age.  Why  had  I  not  thought 
of  this  before?  Is  it  not  my  special  weakness  that 
things  dawn  upon  me  very  slowly?  The  rest,  of 
course,  was  Dr.  Wygram's  delusion,  ultimately  neces- 
sitating his  being  placed  under  the  care  of  his  friends. 

"My  dear  sir,"  I  replied,  after  a  pause,  and  with 
some  effusion  of  manner,  ' '  I  sincerely  trust  that  your 
father's  distressing  illness  may  be  but  temporary.    On 


DR.  WYGRAM'S  SON.  203 

his  being  able  to  receive  the  message,  kindly 'present 
him  with  my  warmest  regards.  Meanwhile,  one  ques^ 
tion  more  before  we  part,  for  I  am  not  going  byfthiS 
train ;  I— I  have  changed  my  mind.  How  many  years'*. 
may  I  ask,  may  there  be  between  your  own  age  and 
that  of  your  brother  ? ' ' 

"About  fourteen  or  fifteen,"  was  the  reply. 

' '  Quite  so ;  and  when  you  were  youngsters  of  about 
the  same  age,  say,  were  you  not  considered  very  like 
one  another?" 

"Remarkably  so,"  he  answered,  laughingly,  "as  like 
as  two  peas." 

G.  M.  McCrie. 


XIII 

ON  THE  INDIA  FRONTIER  :  THE 
DOCTOR'S  STORY. 


WANT  Berlyng,"  he  seemed  to  be  saying,  thongli 
it  was  difficult  to  catch  the  words,  for  we  were 
§S^I  almost  within  range,  and  the  fight  was  a  sharp 
one.  It  was  the  old  story  of  India  frontier  warfare ; 
too  small  a  force  and  a  foe  foolishly  underrated. 

The  man  they  had  just  brought  in— laying  him  hur- 
riedly on  a  bed  of  pine-needles,  in  the  shade  of  the 
conifers  where  I  had  halted  my  little  train— poor 
Charles  Noon  of  the  Sikhs,  was  done  for.  His  right 
hand  was  off  at  the  wrist,  and  the  shoulder  was  almost 
severed. 

I  bent  my  ear  to  his  lips,  and  heard  the  words  which 
sounded  like  ' '  Want  Berlyng. ' ' 

We  had  a  man  called  Berlyng  in  the  force— a  gun- 
ner—who was  round  at  the  other  side  of  the  fort  that 
was  to  be  taken  before  night,  two  miles  away  at  least. 

' '  Do  you  want  Berlyng  ? "  I  asked  slowly  and  dis- 
tinctly. Noon  nodded,  and  his  lips  moved.  I  bent 
my  head  again  till  my  ear  almost  touched  his  lips. 

' '  How  long  have  I  ? "  he  was  asking. 

"Not  long,  I'm  afraid,  old  chap." 

His  lips  closed  with  a  queer,  distressed  look.  He  was 
sorry  to  die.    ' '  How  long  ? "  he  asked  again. 

"About  an  hour." 

But  I  knew  it  was  less.  I  attended  to  others,  think- 
ing aU  the  while  of  poor  Noon.  His  home  life  was 
little  known,  but  there  w-as  some  story  about  an  en- 
gagement at  Poonah  the  previous  warm  weather.  Noon 
was  rich,  and  he  cared  for  the  girl;  but  she  did  not 

(206) 


ON  THE  INDIA  FRONTIER.  207 

return  the  feeling.  In  fact,  there  was  some  one  else. 
It  appears  that  the  girl's  people  were  ambitious  and 
poor,  and  that  Noon  had  promised  large  settlements. 
At  all  events,  the  engagement  was  a  known  affair,  and 
gossips  whispered  that  Noon  knew  about  the  some  one 
else  and  would  not  give  her  up.  He  was,  I  know, 
thought  badly  of  by  some,  especially  by  the  elders. 

However,  the  end  of  it  all  lay  on  a  sheet  beneath  the 
pines  and  watched  me  with  such  persistence  that  I  was 
at  last  forced  to  go  to  him. 

"Have  you  sent  for  Berlyng?"  he  asked,  with  a 
breathlessness  which  I  know  too  well. 

Now,  I  had  not  sent  for  Berlyng,  and  it  requires 
more  nerve  than  I  possess  to  tell  unnecessary  lies  to  a 
dying  man.  The  necessary  ones  are  quite  different, 
and  I  shall  not  think  of  them  when  I  go  to  my  account, 

** Berlyng  could  not  come  if  I  sent  for  him,"  I  re- 
plied soothingly.  "He  is  two  miles  away  from  here, 
trenching  the  North  Wall,  and  I  have  nobody  to  send. 
The  messenger  would  have  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  the 
enemy's  earthworks." 

"I'll  give  the  man  a  hundred  pounds  who  does  it," 
replied  Noon,  in  his  breathless  whisper.  "Berlyng 
will  come  sharp  enough.     He  hates  me  too  much, ' ' 

He  broke  off  with  a  laugh  which  made  me  feel  sick. 

I  found  a  wounded  water-carrier— a  fellow  with  a 
stray  bullet  in  his  hand— who  volunteered  to  find 
Berlyng,  and  then  I  returned  to  Noon  and  told  him 
what  I  had  done.    I  knew  that  Berlyng  could  not  come. 

He  nodded  and  I  think  he  said,  "God  bless  you." 

"I  want  to  put  something  right,"  he  said,  after  an 
effort ;  "  I  've  been  a  blackguard. ' ' 

I  waited  a  little,  in  case  Noon  wished  to  repose  some 
confidence  in  me.  Things  are  so  seldom  put  right  that 
it  is  wise  to  facilitate  such  intentions.  But  it  appeared 
obvious  that  what  Noon  had  to  say  could  only  be  said 
to  Berlyng.  They  had,  it  subsequently  transpired,  not 
been  on  speaking  terms  for  some  months. 

I  was  turning  away  when  Noon  suddenly  cried  out 
in  his  natural  voice,  "There  is  Berlyng." 


208  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

I  turned  and  saw  one  of  my  men,  Swearney,  carry- 
ing in  a  gunner.  It  might  be  Berlyng,  for  the  uni- 
form was  that  of  a  captain,  but  I  could  not  see  his  face. 
Noon,  however,  seemed  to  recognize  him. 

I  showed  Swerney  where  to  lay  his  man,  close  to  me, 
alongside  Noon,  who  at  that  moment  required  all  my 
attention,  for  he  had  fainted. 

In  a  moment  Noon  recovered,  despite  the  heat,  which 
was  tremendous.  He  lay  quite  still,  looking  up  at  the 
patches  of  blue  sky  between  the  dark,  motionless  tops 
of  the  pine  trees. 

His  face  was  livid  under  the  sunburn,  and  as  I 
wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  forehead  he  closed  his 
eyes  with  the  abandon  of  a  child.  Some  men,  I  have 
found,  die  like  children  going  to  sleep.  He  slowly 
recovered  and  I  gave  him  a  few  drops  of  brandy.  I 
thought  he  was  dying  and  decided  to  let  Berlyng  wait. 

I  did  not  even  glance  at  him  as  he  lay,  covered  with 
dust  and  blackened  by  the  smoke  of  his  beloved  nine- 
pounders,  a  little  to  the  left  of  Noon  and  behind  me  as 
I  knelt  at  the  latter 's  side.  After  a  while  his  eyes 
grew  brighter  and  he  began  to  look  about  him. 

He  turned  his  head,  painfully,  for  the  muscles  of 
his  neck  were  injured,  and  caught  sight  of  the  gun- 
ner's uniform.  "Is  that  Berlyng?"  he  asked,  ex- 
citedly." 

"Yes." 

He  dragged  himself  up  and  tried  to  get  nearer  to 
Berlyng.  And  I  helped  him.  They  were  close  along- 
side each  other.  Berlyng  was  lying  on  his  back,  star- 
ing up  at  the  blue  patches  between  the  pine-trees. 

Noon  turned  on  his  left  elbow  and  began  whisper- 
ing into  the  smoke-grimed  ear. 

"Berlyng,"  I  heard  him  say,  "I  was  a  blackguard. 
I  am  sorry,  old  man.  I  played  it  very  low  down.  It 
was  a  dirty  trick.  It  was  my  money— and  her  people 
were  anxious  for  her  to  marry  a  rich  man.  I  worked 
it  through  her  people.  I  wanted  her  so  badly  that  I 
forgot  I— was  supposed— to  be  a— gentleman.  I  found 


ON  THE  INDIA  FRONTIER.  209 

•out— that  it  was  you— she  cared  for.  But  I  couldn't 
make  up  my  mind  to  give  her  up,  I  kept  her— to  her 
word.  And  now  it's  all  up  with  me— but  you'll  pull 
through  and  it  will  all— come  right.  Give  her  my— 
love— old  chap.  You  can  now— because  I'm  done,  I'm 
glad  they  brought  you  in— because  I've  been  able— to 
tell  you— that  it  is  you  she  cares  for.  You— Berlyng, 
old  chap,  who  used  to  be  a  chum  of  mine.  She  cares 
for  you— God,  you're  in  luck!  I  don't  know  whether 
she's  told  you— and  I  was— a  d— d  blackguard." 

His  jaw  suddenly  dropped— and  he  rolled  forward 
with  his  face  against  Berlyng 's  shoulder. 

Berlyng  was  dead  when  they  brought  him  in.  He 
had  heard  nothing.  Or  perhaps  he  had  heard  and 
understood— everything. 

Henry  Seton  Mereiman. 


XIV 
DOCTOR  GREENFIELD. 

T\\R'  GREENFIELD  looked  round  his  small 
~^ft  study  with  satisfaction  and  a  touch  of  pride. 
^^1  In  spite  of  the  book-cases  filled  with  treatises 
on  medicines  and  diseases,  and  the  inevitable  patient's 
chair,  the  room  still  managed  to  be  an  attractive  one. 
The  book-cases  were  of  oak;  the  dreaded  chair  lay 
claim  to  be  a  particularly  good  specimen  of  an  early 
Sheraton;  and  over  the  chimney-piece,  and  on  all 
available  space  of  the  soft  green-colored  walls  hung 
good  mezzotint  prints  in  dark  frames. 

The  servant  put  a  match  to  the  log-laid  fire,  for  al- 
though it  was  May,  there  was  an  evening  chill,  and  a 
sensation  of  damp. 

The  Doctor  had  dined  early,  with  the  expectation 
of  a  long  drive,  so  his  evening  at  home  was  uninten- 
tional, and  caused  by  the  little  piece  of  pink  paper 
which  now  lay  unheeded  at  his  feet.  He  stretched 
himself,  felt  how  tired  he  was,  and  how  luxurious  was 
this  unexpected  evening  at  home.  Then  he  remem- 
bered the  cause  and,  with  an  involuntary  movement, 
stooped  and  picked  up  the  paper  from  where  it  lay. 
He  opened  it  and  read  it  again,  though  he  had  done 
so  several  times  already. 

A  telegram  so  short,  but  he  knew  what  it  had  meant 
to  the  sender  of  it ;  a  lifelong  message  of  despair,  of 
shipwrecked  hopes  and  utter  loneliness.  * '  Charlie  died 
this  evening."  Dr.  Greenfield  read  it  out  loud  quite 
slowly— and  once  more  it  fluttered  to  the  ground,  and 
he  sighed.  So  it  was  all  over;  the  eight  weeks'  watch- 
ing; the  alternate  hope  and  despair;  the  grim  fight 
with  death— and  death  had  triumphed.    He  saw  the 

(210) 


DOCTOR  GREENFIELD.  211 

girl,  the  sender  of  the  message,  standing  as  she  had 
done  when  he  told  her  that  her  brother  must  die.  He 
thought  of  the  weeks  during  which  time  he  had  been 
so  much  thrown  with  this  girl— Juliet  Carson— the 
days  which  they  had  spent  together  watching  by  the 
sick  man's  bed,  fighting  the  battle  of  skill  and  science 
wdth  destiny. 

And  all  the  time  his  mind  dwelt  on  it,  he  knew  it  did 
not  really  touch  him— the  worst  part  to  him  was  that 
his  science  had  failed  him.  For  a  moment  he  let  him- 
self believe  that  the  constant  facing  death,  which  as 
a  doctor  he  was  bound  to  confront,  had  hardened  his 
feelings,  made  him  callous,  and  taken  his  sense  of  pity 
and  sympathy  from  him ;  but  he  was  too  honest,  and 
he  remembered  with  a  true  flash  of  conviction  that  it 
had  always  been  so,  and  memory  took  him  back  over 
many  years,  and  he  seemed  to  hear  his  nurse  saying, 
''Master  George  has  no  heart,  he  didn't  feel  his  fath- 
er's death  a  bit."  And  it  came  to  him  how  right  she 
had  been,  how  he  had  wanted  to  care,  but  something 
wouldn't  let  him;  he  could  not  cry  as  his  brother  did, 
and  he  had  felt  as  if  he  belonged  somewhere  else.  All 
his  later  life,  too,  he  had  known  it.  He  had  no  sym- 
pathy, no  pity,  and  he  knew  that  others  felt  the  want 
in  him,  though  often  they  did  not  know  what  it  was. 
He  had  lived  for  thirty-five  years  now,  and  he  had 
never  cared  for  anyone ;  and  for  the  first  time  tonight, 
as  he  sat  and  looked  into  the  fire,  he  knew  that  his  life 
had  been  only  half  complete,  that  he  lacked  what  was 
the  best,  and  that  his  whole  existence  had  been  colour- 
less. Still,  as  he  argued  against  himself,  if  he  had 
lacked  the  best,  he  had  also  missed  the  worst :  many  of 
his  friends  had  gone ;  he  had  wanted  to  care,  but  the 
power  was  not  there;  he  had  seen  piteous  sights;  he 
had  witnessed  heartrending  scenes  of  poverty  and  de- 
spair, but  they  had  all  been  nothing  to  him ;  they  had 
passed  by,  and  he  had  forgotten. 

Somehow  the  image  of  Juliet  to-night  came  back  to 
him ;  the  girl  in  her  sorrow  and  loneliness  with  no  one 


212  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

left  to  her;  and  he  wondered  why  his  heart  was  not 
wrung  with  pity.  Although  she  did  not  stir  his  heart, 
or  his  senses,  he  could  see  she  was  beautiful ;  but  for 
some  other  man,  not  for  him.  A  new  and  painful  sen- 
sation of  loneliness  suddenly  swept  over  him,  a  horri- 
ble whiff  of  middle  age,  a  foretaste  of  the  solitude  of 
old  age,  which  must  overtake  him,  but  he  could  do 
nothing  to  help  himself,  he  had  no  will,  no  power.  He 
sat  on  in  his  deep  reverie,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
burning  logs.  Then  he  got  up  from  his  chair  and  went 
to  the  window  and  looked  out  on  the  May  evening. 

It  was  half -past  eight  o'clock,  and  the  chill  which 
comes  just  after  sunset  was  in  the  air.  He  stood  look- 
ing into  the  clear  blue  distance,  listening  to  the  night- 
ingales and  the  hum  of  the  bees.  Then  suddenly  he 
saw  a  sight  which  astonished  him— a  procession  wind- 
ing its  way  down  the  long  avenue  of  limes  which  faced 
his  window:  a  curious  procession,  too— a  funeral— it 
was  unlike  any  he  had  seen  before.  It  gave  him  a 
strange  sensation.  Preceding  it  were  men  and  women, 
chanting  as  they  went. 

They  paused  as  they  came  near  to  him,  the  singing 
ceased,  and  several  made  a  gesture  as  if  they  would 
ask  him  to  join  them ;  then  they  drew  back  as  he  heard 
one  say,  "Ah,  not  him;  he  knows  no  pity,  he  has  no 
love,  he  cannot  come ; ' '  and  they  passed  on,  taking  up 
their  chant ;  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  knew 
he  was  an  outcast  and  a  pariah.  He  was  hungering 
and  thirsting  for  someone  to  help  him  and  pity  him. 

Behind  them  came  men  carrying  the  body  of  the 
dead  man,  and  he  bowed  as  they  went  by.  Once  more 
he  looked,  and  he  saw  three  figures— three  white-robed 
women,  walking  together.  And  the  one  who  walked 
in  the  midst  had  the  eyes  of  Juliet  Carson,  and  in  her 
hands  she  held  a  large  cup.  The  three  paused  as  they 
came  near  to  him,  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  a  veil  fell 
between  the  rest  of  the  procession  and  them,  the  music 
got  fainter,  and  he  was  left  alone  with  these  three; 
something  within  him  told  him  that  they  held  in  that 


DOCTOR  GREENFIELD.  213 

cup  the  power  of  pity  and  love,  that  they  alone  could 
give  them  to  him,  and  he  cried  to  them  to  take  pity  on 
him.  Then  Juliet,  for  it  was  Juliet,  spoke  to  him ;  her 
eyes  were  troubled,  though  her  face  shone  with  a  radi- 
ant smile,  and  her  voice  came  to  him  as  a  soft  wind, 
and  stilled  his  despair  and  restlessness. 

"Listen,"  she  said,  "and  know  what  you  ask.  We 
are  three  sisters,  Love,  Joy,  and  Sorrow,  and  if  you 
drink  of  this  cup  you  can  never  again  be  as  you  were. 
You  would  wish,  likely,  to  take  only  Love  and  Joy,  but 
as  love  brings  joy,  so  also  it  surely  brings  sorrow,  and 
you  cannot  take  one  without  the  other.  Say,  will  you 
take  Love,  and  in  so  doing  accept  Joy  and  Sorrow  as 
they  come?"  and  she  paused  while  he  made  his  choice. 

But  with  eager,  trembling  hands  he  took  the  cup  she 
offered  him  and  drank  thirstily,  and  then— his  whole 
being  was  flooded  with  hope  and  delight,  and  as  he 
handed  the  cup  back  to  Juliet  in  her  radiant  form  of 
love,  she  bent  forward  a  little  and  kissed  him— a  kiss 
which  thrilled  his  soul,  and  sent  the  life-blood  rushing 
through  his  veins.  Then  the  figures  vanished.  Once 
more  he  heard  the  faint  sound  of  distant  music,  and 
then— and  then    *     *    * 

The  Doctor  straightened  himself  in  his  chair,  and 
looked  round  him  in  a  dazed,  bewildered  manner. 

"A  dream,"  he  murmured.  "Is  it  possible?  I, 
too,  of  all  men." 

He  looked  round  him.  The  May  morning  was 
breaking  into  his  room,  the  birds  were  singing,  the  sun 
was  up.  So  then  he  had  fallen  asleep  in  his  chair, 
and  all  that  seemed  so  real,  so  tangible,  was  nothing 
but  a  dream— a  dream  of  possibilities,  and  an  awak- 
ening to  realities. 

As  his  mind  grew  clearer,  he  remembered  all  that 
had  taken  place  the  night  before— ah!  that  telegram 
was  the  reality ;  and  once  more  he  stooped  to  pick  it 
up.  But,  as  he  read  it,  a  new  feeling,  and  yet  not  a 
new  feeling  came  to  him— the  sensation  of  his  dream. 
It  made  him  giddy,  and  he  went  to  the  window  to 


214  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

steady  himself,  and  to  feel  the  air.  But  in  him,  and 
all  around  him,  he  was  conscious  of  a  change ;  a  rush 
of  almost  divine  pity  and  love  swept  across  him.  Ah ! 
that,  then,  was  no  dream;  he  was  in  touch  with  the 
love,  the  sorrow,  and  pity  of  the  world ;  he  shared  them 
all ;  he  was  one  of  them,  he  was  no  longer  the  pariah, 
the  outcast;  and  more  than  that,  he  too  loved,  and  his 
love  had  been  alone  with  her  suffering  and  sorrow  all 
night.  Last  night  he  had  not  cared ;  to-day  the  pity 
of  it  almost  stifled  him. 

He  threw  up  the  -window  and  stepped  onto  the  lawn ; 
the  fresh  dew  was  upon  everything,  and  he  stretched 
himself  in  the  rays  of  the  sun,  and  thanked  God  that 
he  was  alive.  He  looked  long  up  the  avenue,  where 
in  his  dream  he  had  seen  the  procession  come  down, 
and  he  shuddered  when  he  thought  how  they  had  left 
him— no,  not  all— and  his  heart  beat  as  he  thought  of 
Juliet  Carson,  and  how  she  had  come  to  him  at  the 
time  of  his  great  want.  And  the  thought  of  her 
brought  back  to  him  the  reality  and  the  present,  and, 
as  he  listened  to  the  clock  striking  six,  he  knew  that 
his  restlessness  must  wait ;  he  who  had  waited  all  his 
life  was  now  impatient  for  two  hours  to  be  over.  Ah ! 
had  it  come  to  this.  He  smiled  at  his  own  impetuosity, 
but  had  not  the  heart  to  rebuke  himself. 

He  spent  the  next  two  hours  wandering  up  and 
down  his  garden,  listening  to  the  morning  sounds,  as 
the  world  woke  bit  by  bit  to  its  day's  work.  He 
watched  the  workmen  pass  by  his  gate  on  their  way  to 
take  up  their  daily  toil,  and  he  wondered  why  he  had 
never  pitied  them— his  had  been  so  much  more  a  case 
of  pity.  Though  worn  and  tired,  and  perhaps  sad- 
dened, they,  too,  had  loved ;  they  had  somewhere,  some- 
time, romance  in  their  lives. 

As  the  church  clock  struck  eight  he  made  his  way 
to  the  stables  and  ordered  his  dog-cart.  His  own  voice 
had  a  conscious  sound  in  it,  and  he  felt  all  the  world 
must  know  he  was  a  changed  man.  As  he  drove 
through  the  deep  lanes,  with  the  honeysuckle,  pink 


DOCTOR  GREENFIELD.  215 

may,  and  wild  cherry  blossom  all  in  their  beauty  be- 
fore him,  he  felt  that  there  was  only  life,  only  beauty 
in  the  world,  and  all  the  sorrowful  and  sad  side  of  it 
had  fled  away.  But  as  he  neared  the  old  manor  house, 
where  death  triumphed,  his  beating  heart  quietened 
somewhat,  and  he  felt  a  touch  of  sorrow  come  over 
him. 

He  was  evidently  expected,  for  he  was  admitted  at 
once  into  the  long  low  room,  into  which  the  sun  was 
pouring.  The  window  was  thrown  up,  and  as  he 
paused  he  felt  that  the  stillness  of  death  was  in  the 
house.  Then  he  heard  a  slight  movement  and  turned. 
At  the  open  window  stood  Juliet,  the  sun's  rays  light- 
ing up  her  white  gown,  and  her  brown  hair ;  her  eyes 
had  the  troubled  expression  of  his  dream,  but  there 
was  no  radiance  in  the  sad,  weary,  little  face.  In  her 
hands  she  held  great  branches  of  white  lilacs,  lilies, 
and  roses. 

He  went  to  meet  her  with  outstretched  hand,  and  a 
great  pity  in  his  heart  spiritualizing  his  human  love. 

"I  knew,"  she  said  simply;  "I  knew  you  would 
come."  Had  she,  too,  seen  the  vision,  or  was  it  in  his 
face? 

And  did  she  bend  her  head  as  in  his  dream?— for 
his  lips  found  hers,  and  that  kiss  drew  the  bitterness 
from  her  sorrow,  while  it  opened  ap  his  new  life  for 
him,  sweeping  away  all  the  years  he  had  left  behind, 
and  flooding  his  soul  with  light  and  love. 

And  although  they  were  in  the  presence  of  death, 
did  not  love  triumph? 

Lady  Mabel  Howard. 


XV 

DR.  GLADMAN,  A  SKETCH  OF 
COLONIAL  LIFE. 


I 


T  WAS  Christmas  morning  in  Southern  lati- 
tudes. The  thermometer  stood  at  80  degrees 
in  the  shade,  and  we  had  just  finished  a  really 
splendid  run  across  the  Pacific,  right  away  from  the 
Cape,  without  touching,  and  w^e  were  all  delighted  to 
be  once  more  about  to  stand  on  terra  firma.  I  had 
signed  articles  in  London,  at  a  shilling  a  month,  as 
surgeon,  to  the  good  ship  "Teneriffe,"  the  Company 
naturally  considering  the  said  shilling  good  pay  in 
addition  to  a  free  passage  for  myself,  and  at  a  reduced 
rate  for  my  wife,  to  Sidney. 

>Ve  were  passing  a  lighthouse,  and  could  see  the 
smoke  rising  from  the  little  settlement  at  King 
George's  Sound.  The  houses  and  harbour  itself  were 
hidden  by  the  first  of  the  many  headlands  that  were 
between  us  and  the  narrow  opening  to  the  anchorage. 
There  was  the  usual  bustle  on  deck  and  tramping  to 
and  fro  of  the  sailors,  who  were  getting  the  anchor 
clear  and  the  decks  in  readiness  to  let  go. 

My  wife  and  her  sister  were  making  certain  changes 
in  their  dress  that  they  might  be  ready  the  moment 
we  dropped  anchor  to  go  ashore.  I  could  hear  my 
wife  ask  her  sister  Rosie  if  she  could  really  believe 
"this  everlasting  voyage  w^as  over?"  as  I  was  hur- 
riedly finishing  off  my  letters  in  the  saloon  to  take 
ashore.  I  had  just  fastened  and  sealed  up  a  long 
letter  to  my  friend  H.  at  "Bart's,"  and  another  to 
my  mother  in  peaceful  Devonshire,  and  had  done  the 
same  for  some  half  dozen  or  more  of  my  wife 's,  w^hen 
I  heard   the   orders,   "Hard   a-port,"   "Ease  her," 

(216) 


A  SKETCH  OF  COLONIAL  LIFE.  217 

"Slow,"  passed  to  the  wheel  and  engine  room  as  the 
pilot's  boat  came  alongside.  It  was  manned  by  four 
rowers  in  man-o'-war's-man  dress,  and  a  tiny  golden- 
haired  boy,  who  didn't  look  more  than  ten,  in  the  stern 
holding  the  tiller  ropes  in  his  little  brown  fist,  and 
keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  pilot's  movements  till  he 
was  safe  on  deck.  Then  he  said  authoritatively,  ''Let 
go  the  rope;  fall  astern,"  rolling  the  "r"  and  giving 
it  "starn"  in  the  approved  style. 

I  ran  down  the  companion-way  again,  and  knocked 
at  our  state-room  to  tell  my  women-folk  to  come  up  and 
see  him— they  both  are  so  fond  of  children.  On  going 
in  I  found  my  wife  standing  in  the  midst  of  open  port- 
manteaus, fastening  on  her  sister's  white  veil  or  pug- 
gery,  attired  herself  in  shore-going  garments,  and  with 
another  long  red-and-white-striped  puggery  shading 
her  own  neck.  My  wife  insists  on  considering  Aus- 
tralia tropical! 

"Do  they  wear  gloves,  do  you  suppose,  in  this 
place?"  she  said,  taking  a  long  pair  of  grey  ones  off 
the  cabin  sofa,  with  a  somewhat  scornful  emphasis  on 
the  "this  place"  which  expressed  her  private  feeling 
about  Australia  generally. 

"Of  course  they  do;  life  in  Australian  towns  is 
the  same  as  life  anywhere  else,"  I  said,  proud  of  my 
information,  derived  from  the  blue-books  of  the  Agent- 
General. 

My  wife  smiled.  She  has  a  peculiarly  sweet  way  of 
smiling  sometimes,  instead  of  answering  one,  which  is 
equivalent  to  her  to  having  the  last  word,  and  is  far 
more  than  equivalent  to  me,  and  very  trying,  as  I  have 
to  conjecture  what  the  last  word  would  have  been. 

We  all  went  on  deck.  The  pilot's  boat  vv'as  already 
some  distance  astern,  and  we  could  hardly  see  the  little 
boy.  We  found  we  were  steaming  slowly  through  the 
blue  water,  past  the  swelling  furze-covered  headlands, 
the  one  we  had  just  passed  being  crowned  by  a  white 
lighthouse,  with  what  looked  at  the  distance  a  tiny 
white  cottage,  with  neat  palings  and  outhouses 
round  it. 


218  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

The  pilot  was  in  command  on  the  bridge.  We  could 
see  his  figure  against  the  sky,  standing  on  the  narrow 
strip  of  a  platform,  from  which  the  officer  of  the  watch 
rules  his  seagirt  kingdom  with  an  even  more  absolute 
despotism  than  that  of  the  sultans  of  the  "Arabian 
Nights."  His  broad  back,  upright  figure,  and  strong 
hands  grasping  the  rail  in  front,  gave  one  a  sense  of 
security,  though  the  quick  clear  enunciation  of  the 
necessary  orders  was  not  quite  that  of  a  sailor,  or  at 
least  did  not  sound  so,  after  the  jolly  roar  to  which 
we  were  accustomed  in  our  skipper. 

For  all  that,  we  soon  found  ourselves  safely  anchored 
well  in  sight  of  the  tiny  jetty  of  the  straggling  collec- 
tion of  wooden  and  corrugated  iron  buildings  that 
form  the  town  of  Albany. 

The  ship  was  at  once  surrounded  by  a  swarm  of  cop- 
per-coloured savages— lads  and  men,  from  apparently 
ten  years  old  to  about  thirty— more  or  less  nude,  who 
proceeded,  one  out  of  each  pair  in  their  rough  boats, 
to  dive  into  the  clear  blue  water  after  the  coins  the 
passengers  threw  in,  and  which  they  came  lap  holding 
in  their  white  teeth,  shaking  the  water  out  of  their 
close  black  curls. 

We  were  watching  two  of  these  chattering  gleaming 
"bronzes,"  as  my  wife  called  them,  averring  that  un- 
less you  looked  upon  them  as  statuary  they  were  really 
not  proper,  when  the  captain  came  up  to  us,  as  we 
leant  over  the  bulwarks,  to  introduce  the  pilot,  who 
stood  just  behind  him  with  an  amused  smile  at  my 
wife's  last  remark. 

"Doctor,  let  me  introduce  Dr.  Gladman,  our  pilot, 
to  you,"  said  our  skipper,  "Mrs.  M.  and  Miss  N., 
this  is  our  parish  doctor,  health  officer,  and  pilot— Dr. 
Gladman." 

The  pilot  bowed,  and  holding  his  peaked  cap  in  his 
left  hand  stood  with  his  close  curling  grey  hair  un- 
covered in  the  glowing  Australian  sunshine,  while  he 
shook  hands  with  my  wife  and  her  sister.  "Welcome 
to  Australia,  ladies,"  said  he,  still  holding  his  cap. 


A  SKETCH  OF  COLONIAL  LIFE.  219 

'  *  Thank  you,  doctor, ' '  said  my  wife.  * '  But  are  you 
not  afraid  to  remain  uncovered  in  this  dreadful  sun?" 

"Not  for  a  short  moment,  madam,"  he  replied,  and 
added,  glancing  at  her  delicate  pale  face  and  the  more 
blooming  cheeks  of  her  sister,  "We  naturalised  Aus- 
tralians long  ago  gave  up  all  hope  of  having  your 
beautiful  English  complexions,"  replaced  his  cap 

"Naturalised?"  echoed  Rosie,  looking  ready  to 
shake  hands  over  again.  ' '  Are  you  really  an  English- 
man, Dr.  Gladman  ?  Oh  !  I  am  so  glad.  I  was  afraid 
every  one  would  be  Australian— Colonial  now." 

Dr.  Gladman  laughed,  "A  good  colonist,"  he  said, 
"but  not  a  Colonial.  No,  it  certainly  seems  a  very 
long  time  ago,  but  I  did  originally  come  from  'Home,' 
as  we  say  out  here.  I  was  born  in  Buckinghamshire, 
and  bred  at  Bart's." 

The  magic  word  Bart's— my  beloved  hospital!— 
completed  the  charm  Dr.  Gladman 's  fine  head,  clever 
face,  and  quick  cheery  speech  had  worked. 

Here  was  a  brother  in  arms,  at  the  first  push  off! 
As  we  made  the  tour  of  the  ship  together,  necessary 
before  he  could  give  us  our  clean  bill  of  health  and  a 
soul  could  leave  the  ship,  I  found  he  had  known  sev- 
eral of  the  older  men  of  my  time  who  were  youngsters 
in  his.  He  had  qualified  fifteen  years  before  I  did, 
but  by  the  time  we  had  reached  the  cabin  to  go  over 
the  ship's  papers  with  the  captain  he  seemed  an  old 
friend.  There  is  something  in  the  air  of  strange  lands 
that  draws  Englishmen  together.  I  had  been  sent 
out  for  my  health ;  so  had  he,  he  told  me  with  a  jolly 
laugh,  ' '  quite  a  wreck,  they  said,  ten  years  ago ! "  I 
told  him  the  latest  medical  news  from  England,  and 
found  he  was  only  a  fortnight  behind  me !  and  saw  his 
Medical  Journal  and  Lancet  as  regularly  as  I  did. 
As  we  sat  down  to  the  saloon  table,  I  asked  him  how 
they  managed  for  a  pilot,  supposing  a  ship  should 
come  in  and  signal  for  one,  while  he  was  away  across 
the  bay,  or  over  on  the  bush,  in  his  capacity  of  doctor, 

"Oh,"  said  Dr,  Gladman,  "it  doesn't  often  happen. 


220  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

You  see  the  regular  liners— the  P.  and  0.  and  Orient 
boats— don't  require  a  pilot,  they  come  in  so  often. 
I  don't  quite  know  why  you  signalled  for  one,  skip- 
per," he  added,  turning  to  the  captain,  who  had  or- 
dered sherry  to  be  put  on  the  table,  and  was  sitting 
with  his  elbows  well  squared  putting  his  very  black 
and  inky  signature  to  the  ship's  papers. 

"I've  never  been  in  here  as  skipper  before.  Why, 
it  must  be  four  years  since  I  was  here  at  all,  Glad- 
man.  I  was  chief  officer  on  the  'Regulus,'  don't  you 
remember,  when  I  last  came  into  the  Sound?  Let's 
nee,  in  1880  it  was." 

"Ay,  so  you  were,"  returned  the  pilot;  "but,"  he 
added,  turning  to  me,  "one  of  my  boat's  crew  has  a 
pilot's  license  too,  and  can  take  a  boat  in  quite  as  well 
AS  I  can.  If  they  don't  care  to  have  him,  they  have 
to  wait  till  I  get  back,  if  I  am  out.  Once  or  twice 
I  've  been  run  very  hard  though,  doing  pilot  and  doc- 
tor at  the  same  time  almost." 

"I  remember,  Gladman,  just  this  very  day,  eight 
years  ago,"  struck  in  the  captain,  "you  took  in  the 

'Badger'  for  Captain  D .     I  was  his  mate  then, 

just  before  that  awful  gale  of  wind  when  the  old 
jetty  was  nearly  washed  to  pieces.  It  was  the  first 
time  I  ever  saw  you,  and  you  were  off  then  to  some 
good  lady— do  you  remember?" 

"Yes,  I  remember  that,"  said  the  pilot,  balancing 
his  silver  pencil-case  on  his  finger.  "I  hadn't  my  lit- 
tle coxswain  with  me  then,  had  I,  skipper?" 

"Hadn't  you?  Oh!  no— of  course  you  hadn't"— 
and  the  skipper  laughed.  "He  was  only  born  that 
night,  was  he  ?  Dear,  dear,  how  time  flies !  So  he  is 
eight  years  old  to-day !  Here 's  to  him ! ' '  And  the 
skipper  raised  his  glass,  and  so  did  the  doctor,  saying 
to  me,  "It's  the  little  chap  you  noticed  in  my  boat— 
my  little  coxswain." 

I  drank  my  glass  also  to  the  little  fellow's  health, 
and  then  the  captain  said: 

"Tell  the  doctor,  Gladman,  how  you  came  to  take 
him." 


A  SKETCH  OF  COLONIAL  LIFE.  221 

"What  is  his  name?"  I  said.  "I  saw  a  curly- 
headed  little  fellow  in  the  stern  of  your  boat,  and  also 
that  you  had  four  men  besides.  That  is  a  good  large 
crew,  isn't  it,  simply  to  pull  you  out  to  a  ship  and 
back?" 

* '  It  isn  't  a  man  too  much,  either,  doctor,  and  when 
you  have  seen  our  Breaksea  in  a  storm  of  wind  and 
rain  you'll  agree  with  me.  Besides,  that  gig  is  all 
I  have  to  take  me  to  my  patients  across  the  bay,  up 
the  harbour  to  the  town.  Of  course  there  is  a  path 
to  the  town  round  the  cliffs  from  the  lighthouse, 
where  I  live." 

"You  saw  it  as  we  passed,  doctor.  Gladman  is 
lighthouse-keeper,  among  other  things,"  put  in  the 
skipper. 

"But,"  went  on  the  pilot,  smiling  at  the  interpola- 
tion, "it  is  a  long  way  round,  and  I  haven't  time 
for  long  ways  round.  We  get  all  our  provisions,  too, 
by  the  boat,  and  my  wife  goes  to  church  and  pays  her 
calls  in  it.  She  is  a  first-rate  sailor,  isn't  she,  skipper? 
And  as  for  that  monkey,  Jack— my  little  coxswain- 
he's  a  far  better  pilot  than  I  am." 

"Is  he  now?"  said  the  captain.  "Tell  the  doctor 
how  you  came  to  take  him,"  he  said,  with  a  sailor's 
love  of  a  good  yarn. 

"He  is  not  your  son,  then?"  I  said,  a  little  sur- 
prised ;  for  I  had  noticed  that  the  child  was  more  care- 
fully dressed  than  one  would  expect  one  of  the  crew's 
lads  to  be. 

"Well,  he  is,  and  he  isn't.  My  wife  and  I  adopted 
him.  We  lost  our  little  one— it  was  a  girl  though— 
the  day  he  was  born.  Yes,  it  is  eight  years  ago  to-day 
our  little  one  was  down  with  scarlet  fever.  She  was 
nearly  two.  There  had  been  an  epidemic  of  it  in  the 
town,  but  I  never  knew  how  the  child  got  it,  up  there 
miles  away,  unless,  you  know,  doctor, ' '  he  said  a  little 
sadly,  "I  took  it  up  to  the  cottage  myself— I  always 
feared  so.  I  used,  before  then,  to  think  if  I  had  been 
to  any  infectious  cases  in  the  town,  that  after  the 


222  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

couple  of  hours'  row  across  and  round  the  point  I 
should  be  safe  and  not  take  anything  up  to  the  cot- 
tage. Anyhow,  the  little  thing  had  it,  and  badly;  I 
hadn't  much  hope  in  the  morning.  My  poor  little 
wife— she  was  one  of  your  Bart's  sisters  before  I  mar- 
ried her— literally  fought  the  disease  inch  by  inch, 
and  we  both  of  course  did  all  that  could  be  done.  I 
had  sat  up  half  the  night— Christmas  Eve— with  the 
little  maid.  It  was  one  of  those  bad  throat  cases, 
doctor, ' '  said  the  pilot,  a  little  gruffly,  turning  to  me. 

I  nodded,  and  he  Avent  on:  "About  seven,  one  of 
the  men  at  the  lighthouse  came  to  say  a  pilot  was  sig- 
nalled for  by  a  ship  off  the  head." 

"That  was  the  'Badger'— ay.  I  rememuer  you 
coming  aboard  in  the  cool  of  the  morning,  as  well  as 
if  it  was  to-day,"  said  the  captain. 

' '  The  other  fellow  was  away, ' '  continued  the  pilot ; 
"so  I  had  a  bath  and  changed  all  my  things,  and  left 
the  poor  wife,  who  was  beginning  to  lose  hope,  sitting 
with  the  baby  on  her  lap.  I  hardly  thought  it  would 
live  till  I  got  back.  Just  as  I  rounded  the  headland 
—or  was  it  a  bit  farther  on,  skipper— f" 

"Thereabouts,"  said  the  skipper. 

"We  met  a  boat  from  the  town,  and  one  of  the 
boatmen  called  out  to  know  if  I  was  aboard,  because  I 
was  wanted  in  Albany.     His  wife  was  taken  bad. 

' '  You  know  what  that  means,  doctor ! ' '  grinned  the 
skipper. 

"I  ought  to,  captain,"  I  said,  hearing  as  he  spoke 
a  smothered  murmur  from  our  state-room,  from  which 
I  guessed  that  the  dead  silence  which  had  till  then 
prevailed  therein  was  only  another  proof  of  the  truth 
of  the  saying,  that  women  are  curious  beings. 

Wholly  unconscious  that  he  had  any  other  hearers 
than  myself  and  the  captain,  the  pilot  went  on : 

"We  were  steaming  into  the  harbour  as  quick  as 
we  could,  so  I  told  the  man  to  fall  astern,  and  we 
towed  them  behind  us.  When  I  got  to  Mrs.  Rogers, 
I  found  that  she  was  better,  and  that  I  shouldn't  be 


A  SKETCH  OF  COLONIAL  LIFE.  223 

wanted  probably  that  day  at  all ;  but  I  did  not  intend 
to  go  back  home— I  thought  it  best  not;  but  after  an 
hour  or  two  I  saw  my  boat  run  in  alongside  the  jetty, 
and  one  of  the  fellows  come  ashore.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments, Rogers  brought  me  a  note  from  my  wife  beg- 
ging me  to  come  back  if  I  possibly  could;  she  was 
frightened  about  the  child. 

"I  knew  I  could  do  nothing,  but  I  couldn't  bear 
the  thought  of  the  wife's  being  all  alone  up  there  and 
looking  for  me— and  perhaps,  later  on,  I  shouldn't  be 
able  to  go — so,  as  I  found  when  I  went  up  to  Rogers' 
cottage  that  everything  was  put  off,  and  my  patient 
preparing  her  husband's  tea,  I  set  off  home  again. 

* '  The  day  had  clouded  over,  and  the  hot  wind  that 
had  blown  off  the  land  all  day  had  died  down,  and 
there  was  that  dead  silence  we  always  have  before  a 
black  squall  of  wind  and  rain  comes  up  from  the  sea. 

"Before  we  got  across  the  bay,  gusts  of  wind  dead 
in  our  teeth  caught  us  once  or  twice  and  curled  the 
water  round  her  bows;  and  just  as  I  jumped  ashore, 
the  first  dash  of  rain  came.  As  I  stepped  on  to  our 
verandah,  a  great  roaring  gust  nearly  swept  me  away. 

"I  went  up  to  the  windows,  and  took  down  one  of 
the  outside  shutters  my  wife  had  put  up  to  protect  the 
glass,  and  saw  her  sitting  with  the  little  one  in  her 
arms.  She  was  relieved  to  see  me,  and  beckoned  to  me 
to  go  round  and  come  in.  But,  you  know,"  said  the 
pilot,  clearing  his  throat,  "I  couldn't  go  in,  going 
back,  as  I  was,  to  the  good  woman  in  labour  over  at 
Albany.     It  wouldn  't  have  been  safe. ' ' 

"No,"  I  said,  "I  suppose  not;"  but  I  wondered  if 
I  should  have  been  so  conscientious  if  it  had  been  I. 

"It  may  have  been  hard  of  me,  perhaps,"  said  the 
pilot,  looking  straight  in  front  of  him ;  ' '  but  I  thought 
it  right;  and  I  could  do  nothing;  I  knew  that  when 
I  left  in  the  morning.  I  opened  the  window  and  told 
the  wife  how  it  was.  She  was  very  good ;  she  wanted 
me  to  come  in,  of  course,  if  only  to  kiss  the  little  thing 
before  it  died.    But  I  told  her  I  did  not  think  I  ought. 


224  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

I  couldn't  do  anything  for  the  child;  it  was  dying 
then." 

The  good  honest  fellow  stopped  a  moment,  and 
again  I  heard  a  movement,  and  I  thought  a  stifled 
sob,  from  our  cabin;  but  the  captain  broke  in  in  a 
rather  unnecessarily  loud  voice : 

"You  were  quite  right,  doctor.  It  was  very  good  of 
you.  I  couldn't  have  done  it  myself,  I  should  have 
felt  so  for  the  missis. ' ' 

'  *  I  felt  for  my  wife, ' '  said  the  pilot,  in  rather  a  hard 
voice;  "but  I  couldn't  have  done  any  good,"  he  re- 
peated, as  if  afraid  to  trust  himself  to  say  anything 
else.     Then  he  went  on : 

*  *  She  sent  the  girl  out  with  some  food  for  me  in  the 
verandah;  and  we  watched  the  little  one,  she  inside 
and  I  out.  I  couldn  't  hear  anything  in  the  room,  the 
wind  roared  and  shook  the  verandah  so;  but  I  could 
see  the  child  was  breathing  slower.  Then  my  wife  put 
her  hand  under  the  wrap  to  feel  its  little  feet."  He 
broke  off,  and  then  added : 

"I  didn't  see  the  end.  One  of  the  men  came  up 
to  say  they  had  signalled  for  the  doctor  from  the 
town.  So  I  had  to  start  back.  The  gig  tore  through 
the  black  seas  before  the  gale.  It  was  a  pitch  dark 
night,  about  eight  when  I  started.  I  got  to  Mrs. 
Rogers  just  in  time.  The  youngster  was  born  about 
midnight.  The  mother  did  very  well,  and  when  I  left, 
about  four  in  the  morning,  the  bay  was  like  a  sheet 
of  glass,  and  the  sun  rising  without  a  cloud  over  the 
cliffs.  The  jetty  had  been  washed  away,  all  but  the 
stonework,  and  my  men  had  had  to  beach  our  boat 
right  up  on  the  road. 

''When  I  got  back,  I  found  the  wife  on  the  lookout 
by  the  lighthouse.  She  had  heard  nothing  of  us,  of 
course,  since  I  left  the  night  before. ' ' 

"That  was  a  hardish  day's  work,"  said  the  skipper 
—"thirty  hours  of  it. 

"Well,  I  was  not  sorry  to  get  my  boots  off,  and 
get  some  sleep,  before  I  started  on  my  round.    I'd  a 


A  SKETCH  OF  COLONIAL  LIFE.  225 

longish  ride  that  day  to  the  telegraph  construction 
camp,  over  the  hill  there, ' '  said  Dr.  Gladman,  getting 
up  from  the  table  and  taking  his  cap. 

"And  your  little  girl— doctor?"  said  my  wife,  sud- 
denly appearing  at  her  cabin  door,  tears  on  her  cheek 
and  a  little  gasp  in  her  voice. 

' '  It  was  dead,  ma  'am, ' '  said  the  father,  and  turned 
to  the  companion  and  went  on  deck. 

We  saw  very  little  more  of  Dr.  Gladman  while  we 
were  in  Albany.  My  wife  and  her  sister  went  up  to 
the  lighthouse  and  called  on  his  wife.  They  came 
away  charmed  with  her  and  the  dainty  little  house- 
hold she  reigned  over.  My  wife  was  enthusiastic  over 
the  trim  garden,  cool  little  parlour,  and  "exquisitely 
clean  kitchen, ' '  and  '  *  would  you  believe  it, ' '  she  said, 
"she  has  only  one  maid-servant,  and  that  a  girl  of 
seventeen ! ' ' 

"I  think,"  she  said  impressively,  stopping  in  our 
walk  up  and  down  the  deck,  as  we  were  taking  our  last 
turn  that  night  after  leaving  Albany,  gliding  past 
the  shadowy  coast  under  the  wonderful  Southern 
Cross—"  I  think  they  are  both  splendid,  those  Glad- 
mans." 

A  burly  figure  leaning  over  the  bulwarks,  puffing 
clouds  of  smoke  into  the  still  night  air,  turned  round, 
and  the  captain's  voice  said: 

"That's  what  they  are,  ma'am.  That's  the  sort 
of  colonist  this  country  wants;  a  man  like  Gladman 
is  worth  a  whole  shipload  of  the  ne'er-do-weels  they're 
so  fond  of  sending  out.  As  for  such  like!—"  he 
pointed  with  his  elbow,  as  he  replaced  his  pipe,  to  a 
group  of  dissipated-looking  youngsters  coming  up 
from  the  bar,  whose  determination  to  drink  more  than 
was  good  for  them  had  been  a  source  of  worry  to  him 
all  the  way  out— "As  for  such  like,"  he  said,  with  a 
look  it  would  do  many  intending  emigrants  good  to 
have  seen,  "I  ask  you,  doctor,  what's  the  good  of 
them?'* 

—Gentleman's  Magazine. 


XVI 

DR.  WRIGHTSON'S  ENEMY. 


IP*  OR  the  last  thirty  years,  Dr.  Wrightson  had 
ji—  been  the  sole  medical  adivser  of  the  little  town 
JwiwBJ  of  Oakliampton,  and  he  was  still  a  hale, 
hearty,  jovial,  stout  gentleman,  of  about  sixty  years 
of  age. 

Dr.  Wrightson  lived  in  the  High  Street,  in  a  long, 
low,  white  house,  which  never  failed  to  look  as  clean 
and  bright  as  if  it  had  been  thoroughly  donelup  all 
over  the  previous  week.  A  large  brass  plate^  .appa- 
rently fresh  from  the  foundry)  announced  in  large 
letters  to  every  passer-by  that  this  was  the  abode  of 
Dr.  Wrightson.  To  the  left  of  the  white  house  stood 
the  surgery,  which  was  marked  by  a  glaring  red  lamp 
and  several  bells,  and  over  this  surgery  presided  a 
helpless  and  timid  young  man  named  Titmas,  the 
doctor's  only  assistant. 

Many  wondered  how  it  was  that  Dr.  Wrightson  did 
not  engage  a  partner  in  his  business ;  but  that  gentle- 
man invariably  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  all  hints  of  this 
nature.  He  was  strong  and  well,  he  said,  and  able 
to  do  his  work  himself  without  any  help  at  present. 
There  would  be  time  enough  to  talk  about  a  partner 
when  he  grew  to  be  an  old  man.  The  real  fact  of  the 
matter  was,  that  Dr.  Wrightson  could  not  bear  to 
admit ' '  a  rival  near  his  throne. ' '  He  was  fond  of  his 
profession,  proud  of  his  reputation  in  it,  and  very 
jealous  of  every  other  practitioner.  A  partner  would 
have  driven  him  distracted ;  and  I  doubt  if  he  would 
ever  have  allowed  him  to  feel  a  single  pulse,  or  to 
have  sent  so  much  as  a  black  draught  out  of  the  dis- 
pensary, without  his  express  permission. 

(226) 


DR.  WRIGHTSON'S  ENEMY.  227 

Besides  this,  Dr.  Wrightson  had  another  reason  for 
wishing  to  keep  all  the  practice  of  Oakhampton  in 
his  own  hands.  The  doctor  had  a  daughter— his  only- 
child,  and  the  very  apple  of  his  eye.  To  make,  or 
save  a  fortune  for  Fanny  was  the  first  great  object  of 
Dr.  Wrightson 's  life,  his  one  daily  anxiety;  and  in 
this  task  the  worthy  doctor  found  an  able  and  willing 
coadjutor  in  his  sister  Penelope,  who  shared  all  his 
hopes  and  tears,  and  seconded  his  endeavours  to  make 
a  handsome  provision  for  pretty  Fanny.  A  partner 
would  necessarily  have  been  very  much  in  the  way  of 
this  project.  If  he  did  half  the  work,  he  would  also 
have  divided  the  profits,  and  that  would  by  no  means 
have  suited  Dr.  Wrightson 's  purposes;  and,  in  short, 
a  partner,  or  even  an  assistant  above  the  calibre  of  the 
inoftsensive  Titmas,  who  had  not  two  ideas  in  his  head, 
would  have  caused  Dr.  Wrightson  tortures  of  jealousy 
and  uneasiness. 

Fanny  Wrightson  had  been  carefully  brought  up 
at  a  first-class  boarding-school;  for  her  mother  died 
when  she  was  a  very  little  child,  and  Aunt  Penny,  who 
then  came  to  take  charge  of  her  brother's  establish- 
ment, though  an  excellent  housekeeper,  was  scarcely 
equal  to  the  responsibility  of  undertaking  the  educa- 
tion of  her  niece.  The  day  she  was  seventeen,  Fanny 
returned  to  Oakhampton  as  a  "-finished'^  young  lady, 
with  a  variety  of  rather  useless  accomplishments,  and 
a  very  slender  stock  of  common  sense. 

Fanny  had,  moreover,  a  fine  taste  for  romance, 
which  seemed  to  be  in  some  danger  of  fading  away 
from  pure  inanition  at  Oakhampton,  when  an  event 
occurred  which  startled  the  whole  Wrightson  family 
from  their  usual  equanimity,  and  raised  a  storm  of 
conflicting  emotions  in  the  heart  of  pretty  Fanny. 

"What  do  you  think?  what  will  you  say?  what  is 
to  be  done?"  exclaimed  Miss  Wrightson,  as  she  en- 
tered her  brother's  room  in  an  excited  manner  one 
afternoon  just  before  dinner-time. 

**Well,  Penelope,  what's  the  matter  now?    Is  the 


228  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

house  on  fire,  or  are  there  burglars  in  the  cellar,  or 
what  ? ' '  asked  Dr.  Wrightson,  quietly  looking  up  from 
a  medical  journal  which  he  was  perusing  with  deep 
attention. 

"No,  no,  brother!  but  something  quite  as  bad.  That 
old  house  in  Church  Street  is  taken,  and  by  whom,  do 
you  think  ?  By  a  medical  man !  There !  His  name 
is  Peirce— Montague  Peirce— and  they  are  coming  in 
at  Lady  Day." 

"The  deuce  they  are  I"  cried  Dr.  Wrightson,  throw- 
ing down  his  journal  with  a  bang.  "Much  good  may  it 
do  them !  I  flatter  myself  the  poor  man  may  go  back 
where  he  came  from  without  having  done  me  much 
injury.  I  have  not  lived  in  Oakhampton  all  these 
years  without  being  able  to  hold  my  own  against  any 
impertinent  upstart  .in  the  kingdom ;  and  so  you  may 
tell  him,  if  you  see  him,  with  my  compliments— my 
most  respectful  compliments.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  a  pretty 
joke,  indeed.  Poor  Mr.  Montague  Peirce !  I  am  sorry 
for  him.  His  prospects  are  not  very  lively,  poor  fel- 
low !  Eh  ?  Fanny,  my  dear,  what  have  you  got  to  say 
about  it?" 

"I  say  it's  a  horrid,  wicked  shame,"  replied  Fanny, 
throwing  her  long  curls  over  her  shoulders,  "and  I 
quite  hate  this  Mr.  Montague  Peirce  already.  What 
business  has  he  to  come  poking  his  nose  into  Oak-, 
hampton,  of  all  places  ?  as  if  anybody  would  ever  think 
of  sending  for  him  when  they  could  get  my  dear  old 
darling  papa  to  attend  them.  The  idea  of  such  a 
thing!  But  never  mind,  Aunt  Penny,  perhaps  Mr. 
Peirce  will  take  some  of  the  poor  people  who  can't 
pay,  off  papa's  hands;  and  then  he  will  have  more 
time  to  spare  for  us  at  home." 

"Bless  the  child!  that's  not  a  bad  idea,"  said  Dr. 
Wrightson.  "So  we'll  let  him  have  some  of  the  very 
poor  people,  shall  vve  ?  Yes,  yes !  so  he  shall.  Excel- 
lent practice  for  a  rising  man.  Give  him  confidence 
and  experience,  won't  it?  We'll  hope,  though,  the 
poor  fellow  has  not  a  large  family  to  support,  or  else 


DR.  WRWHTSON'S  ENEMY.  229 

that  he  has  some  private  means  of  his  own.  He  won't 
live  in  that  house  for  nothing,  I  can  tell  him," 

"The  rent  alone  is  sixty  pounds  a  year,"  remarked 
Miss  Wrightson;  "and  the  garden  is  being  thoroughly 
set  in  order,  Mudge  tells  me.  Mudge  has  been  em- 
ployed to  do  many  little  odd  jobs  about  the  house,  and 
I  met  him  coming  out  of  it  just  now.  Mudge  hears 
Mr.  Peirce  is  a  single  man— quite  a  young  man— but 
has  his  mother  living  with  him.  He  was  doing  well 
in  London,  and  was  reckoned  very  clever  there,  so  the 
servants  told  Mudge ;  but  the  air  did  not  suit  the  old 
lady,  and  so  they  have  come  to  settle  in  the  country. 
I  can't  think  whoever  can  have  advised  them  to  come 
to  Oakhampton,  of  all  places. 

* '  Some  ignorant  busybody  who  did  not  know  what 
he  was  about,  you  may  depend  upon  it,"  said  Dr. 
Wrightson.     "Now,  let's  go  to  dinner,  Penny." 

"It's  not  as  if  you  were  ever  ill,  you  know,  or  un- 
able to  attend  to  your  duties,"  continued  Miss  Pene- 
lope, as  she  walked  into  the  dining-room,  "or  as  if, 
when  you  did  go  away  for  a  day  or  two,  you  could 
not  get  Mr.  Halliday,  from  Littleton,  to  come  and 
look  after  your  patients.  It's  such  a  ridiculous  thing 
of  a  young  man  to  come  down  from  London,  and  try 
to  cut  you  out  at  Oakhampton,  brother." 

"It  merely  evinces  great  folly  and  j^resumption  on 
the  part  of  the  young  man,  my  dear  Penny,  and  so 
we  '11  say  no  more  about  the  matter. ' ' 

But  from  that  day  forward  the  favourite  topic  in 
the  Wrightson  family  was  the  last  enormity  committed 
by  Mr.  Montague  Peirce. 

"I  saw  that  fellow's  trap  standing  at  Hornibrook's 
door,"  Dr.  Wrightson  would  suddenly  observe;  "that 
fellow"  being  the  very  mildest  designation  that  was 
ever  bestowed  to  Mr.  Peirce. 

"Oh,  yes!  I  daresay  you  did.  The  man  makes 
free  with  everybody,  I  hear, ' '  Miss  Wrightson  would 
reply,  indignantly.  "He  goes  and  pays  people  long 
visits,  and  bores  them  to  death,  I've  no  doubt,  and 


S3b  fkE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

then  hopes  all  the  to\vn  will  take  it  for  granted  that 
he  is  attending  them. 

It  was  very  disagreeable  lor  poor  Dr.  Wrightson, 
when  he  drove  through  the  streets  in  his  neat,  respecta- 
ble, blue  brougham,  to  meet  this  young  Peirce  dashing 
past  in  his  light,  smart-looking  dog-cart,  drawn  by  a 
big  chestnut  horse;  and  it  was  most  unpleasant  for 
the  whole  family  to  go  to  church  every  Sunday,  know- 
ing they  were  liable  to  be  jostled  against  "those 
Peirces"  in  the  aisle. 

Miss  Penelope  declared  she  could  hardly  bear  to 
walk  down  the  street,  lest  she  should  meet  her  adver- 
saries j  and  as  for  Fanny,  she  could  not  think  how  it 
happened,  but  she  never  went  near  the  windows  with- 
out seeing  the  "dreadful  man"  pass  by.  It  was  curi- 
ous, that,  under  these  painful  circumstances  Fanny 
should  spend  the  greater  part  of  her  time  in  looking 
out  of  the  window.  To  be  sure,  Mr.  Peirce  was  as 
good-looking  and  pleasant  a  young  man  as  could  be 
met  with  on  a  summer's  day,  and  the  old  lady,  his 
mother,  was  quite  a  picture  in  her  rich  black  silks ;  but 
the  Wrightsons  insisted  upon  considering  the  Peirces 
as  their  mortal  enemies,  and  would  not  listen  to  a 
word  in  their  favour. 

The  rest  of  the  inhabitants  of  Oakhampton  were 
naturally  less  rancorous  against  the  intruders.  The 
Peirces  were  not  likely  to  injure  them  in  any  way. 
Mr.  Priestly,  the  rector,  his  wife,  and  daughters,  of 
course,  called  on  Mrs.  Peirce,  and  pronounced  her  to 
be  a  very  lady-like,  well-informed,  agreeable  person. 
The  Pentelows,  and  the  Fanthoms,  and  the  Horni- 
brooks,  and  the  Goslings,  and  old  Mr.  Lilljovhite, 
thought  it  incumbent  upon  them  to  follow  the  exam- 
ple of  the  Rector,  and  it  was  soon  rumoured  that  the 
Peirces  were  not  unlikely  to  prove  a  great  addition 
to  the  society  of  Oakhampton.  Young  men  were 
scarce  articles  in  that  locality,  and  Mr.  Peirce,  not 
having  much  too  do,  entered  with  great  zest  into  the 
cricket  matches,  and  the  croquet  parties  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood. 


DR.  WRIGHTSON'S  ENEMY.  231 

Besides,  Oakhampton  was  a  place  that  was  improv- 
ing rapidly.  That  is  to  say,  a  railroad  had  lately  run 
through  the  town,  and,  in  consequence,  fresh  villas, 
streets,  terraces,  and  squares,  were  rising  up  in  every 
direction.  Quite  a  new  population  had  been  formed 
during  the  last  few  years,  and  many  of  these  new  com- 
ers, who  had  not  known  Dr.  Wrightson  from  their 
cradles  upwards,  rejoiced  in  the  advent  of  the  new 
doctor  and  determined  to  patronize  Mr,  Peirce  from 
London  at  once.  There  were,  indeed,  other  persons 
in  Oakhampton,  old  inhabitants  who  should  have 
known  better,  but  who  were  so  perverse  and  ill-judging 
as  to  prefer  the  treatment  of  Llr.  Peirce  to  that  of 
Dr.  Wrightson,  who  was  by  this  disaffected  party 
termed  "a  twaddling  old  woman."  Others,  again, 
there  were,  who  had  been  affronted  occasionally,  when, 
on  sending  for  Dr.  Wrightson  himself,  they  had  been 
put  off  w^th  "that  stupid  creature,  Titmas,"  who 
never  seemed  to  know  what  he  was  about ;  and  these 
now  gladly  employed  the  rival  practitioner.  With  the 
best  intentions,  poor  Dr.  Wrightson  could  not  possibly 
make  himself  ubiquitous,  or  attend  to  fifty  patients  at 
once.  Thus  it  happened  one  unlucky  day,  when  Dr. 
Wrightson  had  been  to  pay  a  visit  to  his  old  and  faith- 
ful ally,  Lady  Cardozo,  who  lived  about  five  miles 
from  Oakhampton,  that  Mrs.  Pankhurst's  little  girl 
took  the  opportunity  of  swallowing  a  pin,  which  stuck 
in  her  throat,  and  frightened  the  whole  Pankhuvst 
family  into  fits.  As  the  case  was  one  quite  beyond  the 
powers  of  poor  Titmas,  Mr.  Peirce  was  called  in,  and 
extracted  the  pin  with  so  much  promptitude  and  skill 
that  Mrs.  Pankhurst  was  delighted  with  him,  and 
asked  him  to  prescribe  for  her  own  nervous  affections 
at  the  same  time,  and  also,  to  call  the  next  day  and 
see  how  the  child  w^as  going  on.  It  is  true  that  Mr. 
Pankhurst  (as  in  honour  bound)  called  on  Dr.  Wright- 
son immediately,  and  explained  to  him  fully  all  the 
circumstances  of  the  case,  but  that  headstrong  and 
unreasonable  old  gentleman  could  not  be  induced  to 


232  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

see  the  thing  at  all  in  its  proper  light.  He  looked 
annoyed  and  huffy,  and  remarked  in  his  most  caustic 
manner,  "that  if  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pankhurst  were  satis- 
fied with  the  attendance  of  Mr.  Peirce,  that  was  all 
that  could  be  desired."  Dr.  Wrightson  had  not  the 
slightest  wish  to  interfere,  and  thought  Mr.  Pankhurst 
could  not  do  better  than  secure  the  services  of  the 
young  man  altogether.  Having  been  so  successful  in 
his  treatment  of  Miss  Pankhurst,  he  would  doubtless 
continue  to  give  advice  to  the  rest  of  the  family.  Per- 
haps when  Dr.  "Wrightson  said  this,  he  never  expected 
to  be  taken  at  his  word ;  but  it  did  so  happen  that  the 
very  next  week  the  whole  of  the  little  Pankhursts 
(eight  in  number)  were  seized,  in  regular  rotation, 
with  the  scarlatina,  and  Mr.  Peirce  was  in  regular 
attendance  at  Pankhurst  Park  for  the  next  three 
months.  This  was  a  terrible  blow  to  Dr.  Wrightson, 
for  Pankhurst  Park  was  one  of  the  most  profitable 
households  in  the  neighbourhood ;  and  the  Pankhursts 
were  rich,  influential  people,  and  kept  a  good  deal  of 
company;  and  of  course  Mrs.  Pankhurst  went  about 
in  her  usual  idiotic  manner,  recommending  Mr.  Peirce 
as  the  most  wonderful  man  of  the  age,  and  the  only 
doctor  worth  consulting  in  the  county. 

Still  Dr.  Wrightson  and  his  sister  shook  their  heads 
and  shrugged  their  shoulders,  and  repeated  "that  fel- 
low would  be  found  out  before  long. ' '  Now,  it  so  hap- 
pened that  the  garden  of  Dr.  Wrightson 's  house  in 
High  Street  stood  at  right  angles  with  the  garden  ot 
Mr.  Peirce 's  house  in  Church  Street,  and  at  a  certain 
point,  the  walls  met.  Fanny  Wrightson 's  bed-room 
window  commanded  an  excellent  view  of  the  Peirce 's 
garden,  and  it  was  a  never-failing  source  of  interest 
to  watch  the  proceedings  of  the  Peirce  family.  She 
was  anxious  to  see  what  "tTie  enemy"  did,  when  he  was 
at  home,  and  she  soon  contrived  to  make  herself  com- 
plete mistress  of  his  movements,  and  became  inti- 
mately acquainted  with  his  habits  and  customs.  He 
was  very  kind  and  attentive  to  his  mother,  that  was 


DR.  WRIGHTSON'S  ENEMY.  233 

certain,  and  apparently  he  was  good  to  his  servants 
and  spoke  civilly  to  them.  They  looked  as  if  they 
had  a  great  regard  for  him;  even  the  fat,  lazy,  old 
tabby  cat  loved  him  and  followed  him  about,  and 
jumped  upon  his  shoulder  whenever  she  could  get  the 
opportunity.  Fanny  could  not  help  rather  taking  a 
fancy  to  that  old  eat  of  the  Peirces,  and  when  she  got 
over  the  wall  into  the  Wrightson  's  garden,  Fanny  was 
actually  guilty  of  giving  her  some  milk  sometimes 
when  her  aunt  was  out. 

It  was  about  this  time  Fanny  took  violently  to  the 
study  of  Shakspeare.  ''Romeo  and  Juliet"  was  her 
favourite  play.  What  sweet  passages  there  were  in 
"Romeo  and  Juliet!"  Nothing  could  be  more  strik- 
ing, for  instance,  than  that  part  where  Juliet  exclaims 
—"Oh,  Romeo!  Romeo!  wherefore  art  thou  Romeo?" 

And  how  affecting  were  the  lines— 

' '  My  only  love  sprung  from  my  only  hate. 
Too  early  seen  unknown ;  and  known  too  late, 
Prodigious  birth  of  love  it  is  to  me, 
That  I  must  love  a  loathed  enemy." 

But  nothing  would  induce  either  Dr.  Wrightson  or 
his  sister  to  allow  the  poor  Peirces  any  quarter.  He 
was  an  interloper  and  an  adversary  of  the  most  aggres- 
sive nature.  If  Mr.  Peirce  happening  to  meet  Dr. 
Wrightson  in  the  street,  should,  in  the  innocence  of 
his  heart,  take  off  his  hat  in  passing,  the  old  gentleman 
would  turn  his  head  the  other  way  and  pretend  not  to 
see  him,  or  would  coldly  return  the  greeting  with  a 
gesture  of  intense  disgust. 

When  Miss  Wrightson  and  Mrs.  Peirce  met  at  the 
house  of  some  mutual  acquaintance,  as  was  not  unfr©^ 
quently  the  case,  the  spinster  would  draw  herself  up. 
tuck  in  her  chin,  and  curtsey  in  her  stiffest  manner 
to  the  widow,  and  declining  all  conversation,  would 
sniff  alarmingly  during  the  whole  period  that  Mrs. 
Peirce  remained  in  the  room.  Neither  the  doctor  Eor 
his  sister  scrupled  to  express  the  utmost  solicitude  for 
all  Mr.  Peirce 's  patients.     They  feared  any  sick  per- 


234  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

son  ran  a  very  poor  chance  who  had  Peirce  for  their 
medical  attendant,  and  they  did  not  hesitate  to  say 
that  rather  than  be  left  to  the  mercy  of  "that  inex- 
perienced, conceited  young  fool,"  they  would  prefer 
being  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Titmas  himself. 

In  spite  of  all  they  thought,  said,  and  looked,  how- 
ever, Mr.  Peirce 's  practice  increased  daily.     The  farm- 
ers and  their  families  flocked  to  his  door  on  market 
days,  for  "the  young  man  from  London"  had  per- 
formed some  almost  miraculous  cures,  it  was  stoutly 
averred.     Then  many  of  the  tradespeople  thought  it 
fair  to  give  "young  Peirce"  a  turn  now  and  then, 
and  his  reputation  spread  to  the  servants  of  some  great 
families  in  the  neighbourhood.     Old  Lady  Cardozo's 
own  maid  actually  refused  to  consult  Dr.  Wrightson 
about  her  digestion,  and  announced  boldly  * '  that  Mr. 
Peirce  had  done  such  wonders  for  her  cousin,  Mrs. 
Hogsflesh,  the  butcher's  wife,  in  a  similar  case,  that 
rather  than  not  have  the  benefit  of  his  advice,  she 
would  walk  all  the  way  into  Oakhampton  on  her  own 
legs,  and  pay  him  for  it  out  of  her  own  money. ' '    And 
so  good  an  effect  had  Mr.  Peirce 's  medicine  upon  the 
malady  of  Llrs.  Milliken,  that  the  good  woman  en- 
treated her  mistress  to  try  just  one  bottle  of  it,  for 
her  ladyship  suffered  sadly  from  precisely  the  same 
symptoms  as  Mrs.  Hogsflesh.     The  dose,  taken  surrep- 
titiously and  in  great  fear  and  trembling  by  old  Lady 
Cardozo,  was  most  efficacious,  and  though  she  was  too 
loyal  to  her  old  friend  to  desert  Dr.  Wrightson  alto- 
gether, still  Lady  Cardozo  sent  Mrs.  Milliken  con- 
stantly into  Oakhampton  on  secret  embassies  to  Mr. 
Peirce  for  further  supplies  of  his  very  excellent  rem- 
edy for  a  weak  digestion. 

And  so  the  autumn  slipped  away,  and  the  trees  grew 
bare,  and  the  winds  howled,  and  the  damp,  ohilly  fogs 
of  November  fell  upon  the  little  town  of  Oakhampton, 
and  the  more  Fanny  saw  of  her  father's  enemy,  the 
less  it  became  in  her  power  to  hate  him,  as  she  felt 
a  good  and  dutiful  daughter  should  do.  This  made 
her  very  unhappy  at  times. 


DR.  WRIGHTSON'S  ENEMY.  235 

Lectures  on  scientific  subjects  were  quite  an  annual 
institution  in  Oakhampton  during  the  long  winter 
evenings.  Fanny  AYriglitson  had  always  been  a  very 
regular  attendant  at  these  lectures,  not  that  she  under- 
stood what  they  were  about,  the  least  in  the  world,  or 
that  she  came  home  a  bit  wiser  than  she  went  out,  but 
the  lectures  offered  some  excuse  for  a  very  mild  kind 
of  dissipation,  and  Fanny's  life  was  a  monotonous 
one.  This  year  Fanny  was  more  devoted  than  ever  to 
the  ''pursuit  of  knowledge  under  difficulties,"  for 
Mrs.  Peirce  and  her  son  were  sure  to  be  at  the  Athe- 
nseura,  and  it  sometimes  happened  (Fanny  declared 
she  never  knew  how)  that  she  found  herself  seated 
next  to  the  Peirces,  and  then  Mr.  Peirce  would  very 
good-naturedly  explain  to  her  everything  that  she 
could  not  understand,  and  would  make  the  most  ab- 
struse subjects  as  simple  to  her  as  A  B  C. 

Dr.  Wrightson  never  went  to  lectures.  He  was  too 
tired  of  an  evening,  even  if  he  had  no  patients  to  visit, 
and  he  was  glad  to  take  his  "forty  wdnks"  in  his  arm- 
chair by  the  fire.  Aunt  Penelope  was  too  much  afraid 
of  risking  a  bad  cold  to  stir  out  after  dark,  and  so 
Fanny  was  duly  called  for  every  Thursday  evening  at 
half-past  seven,  by  her  neighbours,  the  Pentelows,  who 
also  left  her  again  at  her  own  door  about  ten  o'clock; 
and  when  she  returned.  Dr.  and  Miss  Wrightson  were 
too  sleepy  to  ask  many  questions,  or  to  make  any 
stringent  inquiries  as  to  Fanny's  adventures.  She 
thought  it  was  not  worth  while  to  wake  them  up  and 
make  them  uncomfortable  by  telling  them  about  the 
Peirces,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  if  they  gave  the  mat- 
ter a  moment's  thought,  they  took  it  for  granted  that 
Fanny  invariably  sat  between  her  friends,  Eliza  and 
Harriet  Pentelow. 

It  chanced,  however,  one  Thursday  morning,  that 
Dr.  Wrightson  descried  in  a  shop  window  a  notice, 
stating  that  Montague  Peirce,  Esq.,  was  to  deliver  a 
lecture  on  chemistry  at  the  Athenieum  that  evening, 
and  he  instantly  came  home,  in  great  wrath  and  in- 


236  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

dignation,  to  forbid  Fanny  or  any  of  his  household  to 
attend  the  lecture,  as  usual,  on  pain  of  his  heavy  dis- 
pleasure. Not  any  member  of  his  family,  he  declared, 
should  **  encourage  the  man  to  make  a  Tom-fool  of 
.hximself  by  giving  lectures," 

In  vain  Fanny  remonstrated  and  entreated  and 
coaxed  her  father  to  let  her  go,  that  once.  Dr.  Wright- 
son  was  inexorable,  till  his  pretty  little  daughter  in 
despair  burst  into  tears,  and  then  Aunt  Penny  inter- 
fered, and  assured  her  father  that  he  had  better  say 
no  more  about  it.  "Fanny  was  moped  to  death  at 
home,  and  after  all,  it  would  be  amusing  to  hear  what 
fit  mess  the  young  idiot  made  of  his  lecturing,  and  how 
he  would  be  the  laughing-stock  of  the  place,  with  his 
absurd  conceit  and  presumption."  So  Fanny  at  length 
obtained  a  reluctant  consent.  It  was  raining  hard 
when  the  Pentelows  called  for  her,  but  Fanny  did  not 
care  for  that.  Wrapped  in  her  large  waterproof 
cloak,  she  tripped  along  the  muddy  streets  to  the 
Athenseum,  feeling  very  proud  and  very  happy,  and 
firmly  convinced  that  if  she  had  been  forced  to  stay  at 
home  her  heart  must  have  broken  at  once.  Mrs.  Peirce 
saw  her  as  she  entered,  and  made  her  a  sign  to  come 
and  sit  by  her,  and  the  old  lady  was  so  good  and  kind 
as  to  confide  to  Fanny  her  nervous  fears  for  ''Monty," 
though,  at  the  same  time,  she  was  quite  sure  his  would 
be  the  best  lecture  of  the  season.  And  such  was  soon 
the  opinion  of  everybody  in  the  room.  Mr.  Peirce 
had  so  fine  a  voice,  so  happy  a  delivery,  and  such  a 
thorough  knowledge  of  his  subject,  that  the  attention 
of  the  audience  was  attracted,  even  by  the  first  few 
sentences. 

Mrs.  Peirce  and  Fanny  were  gratified  to  their 
hearts'  content  by  the  acclamations  of  applause  which 
greeted  the  close  of  the  lecture. 

The  evening  wound  up  with  some  amusing  experi- 
ments with  laughing  gas  by  which  several  school-boys 
and  a  shopman  or  two  were  thrown  into  convulsions 
of  laughter.    This  proved  so  catching,  that  the  whole 


DR.  WRIGHTSON'S  ENEMY.  237 

room  was  in  an  uproar  of  merriment,  and  the  audi- 
ence clapped  and  screamed,  and  stamped  and  cheered, 
till  the  whole  street  resounded  with  the  sounds  of 
their  mirth.  At  the  very  height  of  this  confusion,  a 
rough,  dirty-looking  man  was  observed  to  press  hastily 
through  the  crowded  hall,  towards  the  platform.  His 
eager  looks  and  evident  anxiety  caught  the  attention 
of  the  lecturer,  and  he  instantly  went  forward  to  meet 
him. 

After  speaking  to  the  man  for  a  moment,  Mr. 
Peirce's  countenance  changed  to  an  expression  of  the 
deepest  concern  and  alarm.  He  whispered  a  few  words 
to  his  mother,  and  immediately  left  the  room. 

"What  is  it?  What  has  happened?  Is  anybody 
ill  ? "  inquired  Fanny  of  Mrs.  Peirce. 

"My  poor  child,"  said  the  old  lady,  putting  her 
arm  around  Fanny's  waist  affectionately,  "something 
very  terrible  has  happened.  I  hardly  know  how  to 
tell  you  that  your  father  has  met  with  a  sad  accident. 
Can  you  bear  it  bravely  ?  They  say  it  is  now  freezing 
very  hard  out  of  doors,  and  the  streets  are  slippery. 
It  seems  Dr.  Wrightson,  on  his  way  to  see  a  patient, 
has  fallen  down  and  hurt  himself  severely.  They 
have  sent  for  Montague.  Let  us  try  to  slip  quietly 
out  at  that  side  door,  and  we  shall  be  at  home  as  soon 
as  they  are." 

It  was  quite  true,  that  the  rain  had  soon  turned  to 
sleet,  and  the  sleet  had  frozen  as  it  fell,  and  the  streets 
were  a  perfect  sheet  of  glass,  in  which  the  houses  were 
reflected  as  in  a  mirror. 

Dr.  Wrightson  had  been  sent  for  to  a  sick  person, 
and  in  picking  his  way  cautiously  along  the  pavement, 
he  had  been  suddenly  startled,  just  as  he  passed  the 
Athenseum,  by  the  shouts  of  laughter  and  applause 
that  issued  from  its  partly-opened  doors.  In  his  as- 
tonishment and  irritation  at  these  unexpected  sounds, 
the  doctor  made  a  false  step,  his  foot  slipped  from 
under  him,  and  he  fell,  with  his  head  on  the  curb- 
stone and  his  leg  doubled  under  him;  and  there  he 


238        THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

lay,  stunned  and  helpless,  till  some  workingmen  pass- 
ing by,  ran  to  his  assistance. 

Seeing  he  was  perfectly  unconscious,  the  men  fan- 
cied he  was  dead,  and  this  was  the  report  that  one  of 
them  carried  to  Mr.  Peirce. 

When.  Fanny  and  Mrs.  Peirce  made  their  way  into 
the  street,  they  found  that  it  was  hardly  possible  to 
walk  without  falling.  No  horse  could  keep  its  footing 
at  all,  and  people  were  slipping  and  sliding  about  in 
every  "^  direction.  It  was  with  considerable  difficulty 
that  the  two  ladies  reached  Dr.  Wrightson's  door  in 
safety,  and  there  they  were  met  by  a  melancholy  cav- 
alcade. The  good  old  Doctor  lay  on  a  shutter,  borne 
by  half-a-dozen  strong  men,  and  was  followed  by  a 
crowd  of  sorrowing  friends.  At  the  head  of  the  pro- 
cession walked  the  Rector  and  Mr.  Peirce. 

At  the  surgery-door  appeared  Mr.  Titmas,  fright- 
ened at  the  tramping  of  so  many  feet,  who,  when  he 
learnt  what  had  occurred,  speedily  lost  the  little  stock 
of  presence  of  mind  he  had  ever  possessed,  and  col- 
lapsed altogether  into  a  state  of  helpless  imbecility. 

Miss  Wrightson,  who  was  summoned  down-stairs 
by  the  shrieks  of  the  parlour-maid,  instantly  fainted 
dead  away,  in  the  front  hall,  just  as  the  lifeless  form 
of  her  brother  was  brought  into  the  house. 

Nobody  seemed  to  have  any  presence  of  mind  but 
poor  little  Fanny,  who  stood  there,  pale  and  trembling 
to  be  sure,  but  quite  ready  to  obey  Mr.  Peirce 's  direc- 
tions, and  to  make  herself  useful  in  every  possible  way. 
Under  Mrs.  Peirce 's  superintendence  a  bed  was  soon 
prepared  for  Dr.  Wrightson,  in  his  own  study;  splints 
and  bandages  were  procured  from  the  surgery,  and 
Mr.  Peirce  proceeded  to  examine  the  injuries  sustained 
by  the  poor  gentleman. 

His  head  was  badly  cut,  but  it  was  hoped  that  no 
great  harm  was  done  in  that  quarter;  his  right  leg, 
however,  had  sustained  a  compound  fracture,  and  he 
seemed  much  bruised  and  shaken  by  his  fall.  Mr. 
Priestly  strove  to  help  Mr.  Peirce,  Mr.  Titmas  being 


DR.  WRIGHTSON'S  ENEMY.  239 

quite  incapable  of  being  of  the  slightest  use  to  any- 
body, and  Mrs.  Peirce  proved  herself  to  be  a  most 
valuable  and  experienced  nurse.  As  soon  as  Miss 
Wrightson  was  restored  to  her  senses,  she  sat  crying 
and  rocking  herself  backwards  and  forwards,  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  room,  declaring  that  her  brother  was  dying, 
and  that  she  should  not  long  survive  him,  while  Fanny 
knelt  by  her  father's  bedside,  patiently  watching  the 
proceedings  of  Mr.  Peirce  and  his  mother,  and  waiting 
upon  them  in  a  quiet  unobtrusive  way,  which  raised 
her  very  much  in  their  opinion. 

The  first  words  spoken  by  Dr.  Wrightson  were, 
"Send  for  Halliday  immediately.  I  don't  know  what 
has  happened;  but  it  seems  to  me,  I  am  ill,  and  Tit- 
mas  is  no  better  than  a  fool.  But  don't  send  for  that 
fellow  Peirce,  whatever  you  do.  D'ye  hear?  all  of 
you.  I  tell  you  I  won't  have  the  man  in  my  house  as 
long  as  I  am  alive  to  be  the  master  of  it." 

' '  Ahem !  my  good  friend, ' '  began  the  Eector,  gently 
clearing  his  throat,  "it  is  not  possible  to  send  to  Lit- 
tleton tonight;  the  roads  are  quite  impassable.  You 
have  had  the  misfortune  to  slip  down  yourself,  and 
your  leg  has  been  broken.  It  is  now  set,  and  will,  we 
trust,  under  the  blessing  of  Providence,  be  ere  long 
restored  to  use." 

"Nonsense!  Don't  tell  me,"  cried  the  Doctor, 
angrily,  "Halliday  must  and  shall  be  sent  for.  He 
will  come  directly  he  knows  I  am  ill.  My  leg  shall  not 
be  set  till  Halliday  comes.  Let  no  one  dare  to  meddle 
with  it." 

"  Oh !  my  dear,  dear  father, ' '  said  Fanny,  throwing 
her  arms  around  him,  "do  be  good  and  let  Mr.  Peirce 
doctor  your  leg ;  it  will  soon  be  better,  if  you  will  only 
lie  still  and  be  patient.  For  the  sake  of  your  poor 
little  Fanny,  do  let  Mr.  Peirce  stay  with  you  now. 
Oh !  Mr.  Peirce,  please  don't  mind  what  he  says.  Don't 
let  papa  send  you  away.  If  he  should  say  anything 
a  little  rude  you  won't  listen  to  him,  will  you?  I 
think  he  is  so  ill  he  scarcely  knows  what  he  says.  Dear 


240  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

Mrs.  Peirce,  pray  ask  your  son  to  stay  here,  whatever 
papa  may  say  against  it. ' ' 

"Nothing  will  induce  me  to  leave  him,  as  long  as  I 
can  be  of  the  slightest  use  to  him,  Miss  Fanny,  you 
may  depend  upon  that,"  said  Mr.  Peirce,  firmly. 

In  the  meantime,  Dr.  "Wrightson  tried  to  move,  but 
fell  "back  with  a  moan,  and  shut  his  eyes  again.  His 
face  was  quite  contracted  with  pain. 

* '  Calm  yourself,  dear  sir, ' '  began  Mr.  Priestly  once 
more.  "Consider  that  your  system  has  sustained  a 
severe  shock.  You  cannot  keep  your  mind  too  quiet. 
Leave  everything  to  us,  and  try  to  sleep.  Let  me  en- 
treat you  to  lie  still,  and  trust  yourself  to  the  kind 
care  of  my  very  excellent  young  friend  here,  and  his 
good  mother.  Believe  me,  you  could  not  possibly  be 
in  better  hands." 

"My  patients!  what  will  become  of  my  patients?" 
groaned  Dr.  Wrightson  presently.  "That  fellow  will 
inveigle  away  every  patient  I  have.  If  I  lose  my  prac- 
tice in  Oakhampton,  I  am  a  ruined  man  this  night.  I 
am  too  old  to  go  away  and  begin  life  afresh  elsewhere. 
You  will  be  left  a  beggar,  my  poor  child,  if  I  lose  my 
patients  here."  , 

"If  you  would  allow  me,  Dr.  Wrightson,  to  act  as 
your  assistant,  till  you  are  able  to  make  some  arrange- 
ment with  your  friend  Mr.  Halliday,  I  can  only  say  I 
should  be  most  happy  to  do  so,"  said  Mr,  Peirce.  "I 
would,  of  course,  work  strictly  under  your  directions, 
and  follow  out  your  wishes  in  every  respect;  and  I 
would  take  care  to  make  it  understood  that  I  was  only 
taking  your  place  for  the  time  being.  There !  now  will 
you  consent  to  go  to  sleep  with  an  easy  conscience  ? ' ' 

Dr.  Wrightson  did  not  answer  for  some  minutes, 
then  suddenly  holding  out  his  hand  to  Mr.  Peirce,  he 
exclaimed,  with  tears  in  his  eyes : 

"I  am  at  your  mercy,  sir ;  I  shall  lie  here  for  many 
a  long  week  to  come,  and  maybe  I  shall  never  again  be 
the  man  I  was.  There  is  a  fine  opening  in  Oakhamp- 
ton, sir,  for  a  rising  young  man  now.  You  had  better 
take  advantage  of  it.  I  am  not  able  to  help  myself." 


DR.  WRIGHTSON'S  ENEMY.  241 

"Thank  you,  Dr.  Wrightson;  then  you  will  let  me 
have  my  own  way,"  said  Mr.  Peirce,  quietly;  "and 
you  will  consider  me  as  your  junior  partner  till  you 
are  quite  strong  and  well  again.  Nay,  if  you  have  any 
scruples  about  the  matter,  you  shall  pay  me,  just  as 
you  do  my  friend  Titmas— there  need  be  no  obligations 
between  us.  And  by  the  by,  to  begin  with,  where  were 
you  bound  to  this  evening?  I  had  better  just  run 
round  there  at  once,  and  when  I  return  I  shall  hope  to 
find  you  quite  comfortable  and  fast  asleep.  My  mother 
will  remain  here  to-night ;  she  is  a  capital  nurse. ' '  And 
the  young  doctor,  feeling  amply  repaid  for  his  services 
by  a  look  of  intense  gratitude  from  Fanny,  retired  to 
get  his  instructions  from  Mr.  Titmas. 

The  next  day  the  snow  fell  fast  and  lay  thick  on  the 
ground.  All  communication  between  Oakhampton  and 
Littleton  was  entirely  cut  off  for  more  than  a  week. 
No  Mr.  Halliday  could  by  any  possibility  come  over 
to  attend  to  the  medical  requirements  of  Oakhampton. 
Mr.  Peirce,  however,  cheerfully  trudged  about  in  his 
great  jack  boots,  though  he  was  often  up  to  his  waist 
in  the  snow,  and  he  never  failed  faithfully  to  report 
progress  to  Dr.  Wrightson  of  all  his  patients,  humor- 
ing the  old  gentleman  by  invariably  asking  his  advice 
and  opinion,  though,  perhaps,  he  did  not  always  follow 
it  very  implicitly. 

On  Christmas  Eve,  Mr.  Halliday,  with  some  diffi- 
culty, made  his  way  to  the  bedside  of  his  old  friend, 
and  expressed  himself  highly  delighted  with  the  prog- 
ress Dr.  Wrightson  had  made.  Nothing  could  have 
been  more  judicious,  he  declared,  than  Mr.  Peirce 's 
mode  of  treatment.  The  leg  was  going  on  marvellously 
well,  and  though  it  would  naturally  be  a  tedious  pro- 
cess at  the  doctor's  age,  still  the  bones  were  knitting 
famously  already.  Dr.  Wrightson  was  most  fortunate 
at  such  a  moment  to  fall  into  such  skilful  hands. 
"There  was  not  one  man  in  a  dozen  who  could  have 
made  so  neat  a  job  of  such  a  ease."  So  said  Mr.  Halli- 
day emphatically, 
a— 16 


242  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

"Ah,"  sighed  Dr.  Wrightson;  ''it's  all  very  well, 
but  I  'm  done  for,  Halliday.  I  have  had  a  great  shake ; 
I  shall  never  be  fit  for  much  work  again  after  this.  I 
never  was  ill  before  in  my  life,  and  at  my  age  one 
can't  stand  this  sort  of  thing.  My  poor  child  here  will 
suffer  for  it.  I  ought  to  have  looked  out  for  a  partner 
before  this,  and  have  got  a  good  round  sum  down,  for 
a  share  in  the  business.  Now  it  is  simply  worth  noth- 
ing at  all.  That  young  fellow  Peirce  has  got  hold  of 
all  my  patients.  They  seem  to  take  a  fancy  to  him, 
and  no  partner  of  mine  will  have  a  chance  against  him. 
But  he 's  a  clever  dog,  and  knows  what  he  is  about ;  I 
must  say  that  for  him, ' ' 

* '  Then,  in  the  name  of  goodness,  why  not  make  him 
your  partner,  Wrightson  ?  It  is  quite  out  of  the  ques- 
tion that  I  should  come  over  from  Littleton  to  look 
after  your  patients,  and  so  I  tell  you  plainly.  I 
could  not  undertake  it.  Why  not  get  this  young 
Peirce  now,  to  put  his  money  in  with  yours,  and  save 
you  all  the  hard  work?  That  will  be  your  plan, 
depend  upon  it.  You  will  then  have  Oakhampton 
entirely  in  your  own  hands,  and  carry  all  before  you." 

"That's  what  they  all  say,"  replied  Dr.  Wrightson ; 
' '  but  the  man  would  not  be  such  a  fool  as  to  consent  to 
it,  when  he  can  get  all  my  connection  away  from  me 
for  nothing,  if  he  chooses  to  try.  The  ladies  are  all 
for  him ;  he  is  popular  enough  here  already.  They  are 
tired  of  me.  I  am  old  and  worn  out,  and  past  my  work 
now,  and  Peirce  is  the  man  to  suit  them  henceforth  in 
Oakhampton.     I  can  see  it  plainer  every  day. ' ' 

"Oh,  papa!  dear  papa!  pray  don't  talk  in  that 
dreadful  way,"  cried  Fanny,  who  was  in  the  room; 
' '  Mr.  Peirce  is  only  anxious  to  work  for  you,  and  be  of 
use  to  you,  till  you  are  better.  I  assure  you  he  would 
gladly  be  your  partner,  or  do  anything  to  make  you 
happy  and  comfortable.  Indeed,  and  indeed,  papa, 
you  may  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  this. ' ' 

"Bless  my  heart,  alive!  Fanny,  how  do  you  know 
what  Peirce  wants?    Why,  Fanny,  child,  what's  all 


DR.  WRIGHTSON'S  ENEMY.  243 

this  mean,  eh  ?  How  the  girl  colours,  and  how  guilty 
she  looks,  a  little  minx!  Come,  child,  tell  me  what 
makes  you  think  Peirce  would  like  to  be  my  partner 
instead  of  my  rival  ?     I  should  like  to  know. ' ' 

"Here  is  Mr.  Peirce,  ask  /im,"  replied  Fanny, 
hiding  her  blushing  face  behind  the  red  moreen  cur- 
tains of  her  father's  bed. 

"My  object,  sir,  is  not  so  much  to  be  your  partner  as 
your  son,"  said  Mr.  Peirce,  coming  forward  boldly. 
"If  I  can  combine  the  two  relations,  I  shall  indeed 
esteem  myself  a  fortunate  man.  Will  you  let  me  help 
you  to  work  for  our  dear  Fanny  ?  I  do  not  think  you 
can  be  more  devoted  to  her  interests  than  I  am.  Let 
me  see.  Suppose  we  say  a  share  in  your  practice  would 
be  worth  'fifteen  hundred  pounds — I  have  that  sum 
lying  idle  at  my  banker 's  at  this  moment.  It  shall  be 
paid  into  your  account  as  soon  as  you  please.  Then 
I  am  not  entirely 'without  private  means.  My  father 
left  me  an  income  of  about  eight  hundred  a  year.  Will 
you  come  to  terms  and  give  me  Fanny's  hand  into  the 
bargain  ? ' ' 

"What!  so  you've  got  possession  of  her  heart  safe 
enough,  I  '11  warrant  me,  you  young  rogue,  and  I  have 
not  a  word  to  say  for  myself.  I'm  fairly  conquered; 
you've  won  the  day.  Fanny,  where  are  you?  To  go 
and  play  such  a  trick  to  your  poor  old  bed-ridden 
father!  Eh!  are  you  not  ashamed  of  yourself,  miss?" 

"No,  papa,  not  a  bit!"  said  Fanny,  coming  out  of 
her  concealment  behind  the  curtain;  "and  you  have 
nobody  but  yourself  to  thank  for  it,  after  all;  for  if 
you  had  not  abused  poor  Montague  from  morning  till 
night,  I  dare  say  I  should  never  have  thought  of  him 
twice,  or  troubled  my  head  about  him  in  any  way.  As 
it  was—" 

"You  never  thought  of  anybody  else  I  may  venture 
to  hope,  and  I  am  duly  grateful  to  your  father  for  it, ' ' 
added  Mr.  Peirce  confidently. 

"Well,  well,  well!  Have  it  your  own  way.  I  am  a 
poor,  broken-down,  useless,  helpless,  old  man;  but  I 


244  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

did  not  tliink  my  own  daughter  would  have  gone  over 
to  the  enemy.  "When  there  are  traitors  in  the  camp, 
I've  nothing  for  it  but  surrender  at  discretion.  Make 
your  own  terms— give  me  no  quarter— I've  deserved 
it  all  for  being  a  wicked,  jealous,  uncharitable,  ill- 
natured  old  brute.  You've  heaped  coals  of  fire  enough 
on  my  head,  Peirce,  if  that 's  any  consolation  to  you. ' ' 
' '  To-morrow  is  Christmas  Day, ' '  said  Fanny,  gently 
taking  her  father's  hand,  and  putting  it  into  that  of 
her  lover.  "Now,  father  dear,  promise  me  you  will 
never  have  any  more  enemies  as  long  as  you  live,  which 
we  hope  will  be  very,  very  long,  now  you  have  Mon- 
tague to  take  all  the  hard  work  off  your  hands.  In 
Oakhampton,  at  least,  let  us  always  have  in  future 
'Peace  and  good- will  towards  men.'  " 

Hon.  Eleanor  Eden. 


1 


XVII 

THE  COMING  OF  THE  SHIP:  THE 
DOCTOR'S  PATIENT. 

A  selected  reading  from  The  Head  of  a  Hundred.  Edited 
by  Maud  Wilder  Goodwin.  Dr.  Humphrey  Huntoon,  a  young 
Englishman,  in  the  early  days  of  the  colonies  comes  to  this 
country  in  pique  at  the  coldness  of  Elizabeth  Romney,  his 
sweetheart,  who  is  above  him  in  social  station.  The  story  is 
filled  with  charming  pictures  of  colonial  life  and  sentiment. 
In  the  opening  part  of  this  reading,  Huntoon,  in  a  burst  of 
confidence,  tells  his  old  friend,  the  ship-captain,  of  his  dis- 
appointment in  love.  In  the  second  part  a  new  ship  comes 
from   England. 


^T^  IS  strange  what  lightness  of  spirit  comes  with 
^L^  the  laying  bare  of  a  sore  heart.  Verily,  a 
^Sl  trouble  half  told  is  half  healed.  Here  I,  who 
had  not  been  merry  for  months,  found  myself  now 
Bmiling  in  the  dark,  as  I  talked  of  those  pleasant  days 
of  old.  Then,  like  a  mourner  ashamed  that  he  hath 
forgot  his  grief,  I  caught  up  my  melancholy  once  more. 
"Well,  well!  All  that  is  over  and  gone.  If  she 
loved  me  in  those  childish  years  (and  I  still  think  she 
did),  she  outgrew  the  foolishness  soon  enow.  Yet, 
from  time  to  time,  as  she  grew  into  maidenhood,  she 
let  drop  some  word,  some  hint,  as  tho'  she  would  say, 
*  Perhaps ! '  but  ere  I  could  pry  into  the  meaning  of  her 
words  her  eyes  gathered  merriment,  like  as  if  they 
were  laughing  at  the  poor  fool  who  allowed  himself  to 
be  cheated  thus. 

*'Once,  ere  I  went  to  Oxford,  I  rode  beneath  her 
window.  She,  leaning  out  of  the  casement,  did  drop  a 
sprig  of  lad's-love,  which  a  moment  before  she  had 
been  holding  to  her  lips ;  then,  when  I  looked  up,  with 

(245) 


246       A  DOCTOR  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL. 

my  heart  in  my  eyes,  she  slammed  the  window  to,  and 
a  moment  later  I  heard  her  calling  her  dog  witliin. ' ' 

"Tush,  tush,  lad!  A  woman's  ways  are  like  the 
maze  at  Hampton  Court.  If  thou  lose  the  clew,  thou 
mayst  wander  round  and  round  forever  and  be  no 
nearer  coming  out.  Why  didst  thou  not  ask  her  flat, 
would  she  have  thee  for  her  husband  ? ' ' 

"Why  not,  indeed.  Ah,  therein  lies  the  root  of  all 
my  bitterness!  When  I  had  finished  my  studies  at 
Oxford  and  got  my  degree  as  a  physician  and 
chirurgeon  in  London,  I  found  myself  with  a  scanty 
portion  of  a  thousand  pounds.  Yet  had  I  none  the 
less  high  hopes  of  carving  my  way  to  fame  and  for- 
tune, as  other  men  have  done  from  still  lower  estate. 
This  did  I  write  to  Sir  William  Romney,  and  in  a 
packet  I  enclosed  a  letter  to  his  daughter. 

*  *  Therein  I  told  her  anew  what  she  knew  of  old,  that 
I  loved  her.  I  asked  her  not  to  share  the  fortunes  of 
a  poor  adventurer.  I  did  but  seek  a  pledge  that  she 
would  grant  me  a  year  and  a  day,  and  a  promise  that 
if  by  that  time  I  had  aught  of  success  to  lay  at  her  feet, 
she  would  look  on  my  suit  with  favor." 

* '  It  was  done  like  thyself,  Humphrey.  What  answer 
made  she  ? ' ' 

* '  Answer !  Oh,  it  makes  me  mad  to  think  on 't !  She 
might  have  said  me  nay,  and  yet  I  would  have  gone 
my  way  loving  her  like  a  knight  of  old,  without  hope 
of  reward  or  return ;  but  to  be  flouted  and  baited,  and 
badgered  and  mocked,  when  I  had  offered  her  that 
poor  thing,  my  heart— oh,  it  was  ill  done !" 

The  instinct  of  my  body  to  keep  pace  with  my  rest- 
less and  turbulent  soul  led  me  to  stride  up  and  down, 
striving  to  master  the  storm  within  me.  When  I  took 
my  seat  again.  Captain  Chester  drew  me  on  to  speak 
further. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said,  "the  maid  was  but  the  mouth- 
piece of  her  father.  I  hear  of  him  everywhere  as  a 
hard,  cold  man." 

"Oh !  Ay,  ay,  ay,"  I  broke  in,  "I  have  said  all  that 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  SHIP.  247 

over  and  over  to  myself,  like  a  madman,  since  ever  I 
received  Sir  William's  cool  note  of  dismissal,  inclosing 
the  daughter's  mocking  lines;  but  whenever  I  would 
soothe  my  sore  heart  with  the  thought  that  she  wrote 
it  not  of  her  own  free  will,  my  reason  says:  '  'Tis 
false,  and  thou  knowst  it!'  She  would  brave  a  thou- 
sand fathers  if  she  really  loved,  and  her  will  was 
crossed.  I  know,  of  course,  that  her  refusal  jumped 
with  her  father's  wish." 

I  was  down  for  a  week  with  that  wretched  James 
City  fever.  By  day  I  shivered,  and  by  night  I  burned 
wdth  a  consuming  heat.  Pory  said  it  served  me  right 
that  I,  who  had  come  hither  hoping  to  fatten  on  the 
misfortunes  of  others,  should  myself  fall  a  victim. 

Thus  he  talked,  like  himself,  and  equally  like  him- 
self he  stayed  by  my  bedside  day  and  night,  scarcely 
taking  off  his  clothes,  tending  me  as  if  I  were  a  baby, 
and  mixing  doses  of  the  bark,  a  sovran  remedy,  till  he 
saw  me  well  on  the  road  to  recovery. 

My  convalescence  he  cheered  as  he  had  cured  my  ill- 
ness. One  day  (I  was  quite  recovered  then)  my  lively 
friend  came  bounding  in,  full  of  excitement. 

"A  ship  lieth  in  the  harbor,"  cried  he,  *'and  she 
hath  brought— what  think  ye?" 

''Sooth,  I  know  not.  How  should  I?  And  if  I  did, 
'twere  cruel  to  spoil  thy  sport  by  saying  so.  "What  is 
this  wondrous  cargo  ? ' ' 

"Why,  twenty  maids,  come  out  with  one  that  is 
already  betrothed  to  Babcock,  the  blacksmith!" 

"Well,  what  of  it?" 

"What  of  it,  man !  Why,  'twould  be  the  making  of 
the  colony  could  we  get  twenty  score  in  place  of  one. 
Ay,  I  say,  'twould  be  the  making  of  this  colony.  A 
shipload  of  good  wives  were  the  best  cargo  England 
could  send  us." 

' '  And  thou  wouldst  choose  the  handsomest  for  thy- 
self, by  right  of  thine  office,  I  dare  be  sworn." 

"Nay,  not  I.  I  have  ever  had  too  poor  luck  at  play 
to  throw  dice  with  Fate  for  such  heavy  stakes. ' '  With 
this  he  ran  out,  laughing. 


248  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

When  lie  was  gone,  I  stretched  my  head  forth  from 
the  window  of  my  lodging.  Yonder  in  the  river,  a  tall 
ship  lay  black  against  the  shining  water.  I  could  see 
the  sailors  in  their  glazed  hats  and  loose,  flapping 
breeches,  casting  anchor  to  the  time  of  their  harsh 
Bong.  Skiffs  and  canoes  were  plying  busily  betwixt 
the  ship  and  the  shore.  One  curious  thing  I  noted, 
that,  whereas  only  one  went  out  in  each  canoe,  two 
came  back ;  and  then,  as  mine  ear  caught  the  ringing 
of  the  church  bells,  and  mine  eyes  marked  the  gallants 
who  had  gone  of  late  ill-clad  and  worse  shaven,  now 
tricked  out  in  bands  of  fine  lawn  and  ruffles  at  their 
wrists,  a  sudden  light  brake  on  me,  and  I  realized  that 
all  this  was  because  the  twenty  maids  were  come,  and 
straightway  these  bachelors,  who  till  now  had  been 
quite  content  in  their  single  estate,  must  set  their  silly 
hearts  on  being  married. 

"Ho!  there,  Master  John!"  I  shouted,  as  I  caught 
sight  of  Pory's  grizzled  head  and  pointed  beard  under 
my  window.  "Read  me  this  riddle:  *What  is  that 
which  flies  when  pursued,  and  pursues  when  fled 
from?'  " 

"A  maid." 

* '  Verily,  thou  art  a  shrewd  fellow  to  have  guessed  it. 
Come  up,  therefore,  and  tell  me  all  thou  knowest  which 
thou  mayst  do,  and  yet  be  gone  in  five  minutes." 

"That  my  civility  may  the  more  brightly  shine 
against  the  foil  of  thine  uncivil  words,  I  will  come, 
and,  to  heap  coals  of  fire  on  thy  head,  I  will  tell  thee 
of  the  scene  on  shipboard.  The  choosing  of  husbands 
and  wives  went  on  as  merrily  as  the  choosing  of  part- 
ners for  a  country-dance.  It  was  a  busy  market,  I  can 
tell  thee." 

"A  market— how  meanest  thou?" 

"Why,  'tis  thus  they  manage  it,  by  bargain  and 
sale;  and  belike  'tis  as  good  an  arrangement  as  any, 
since  when  the  husband  hath  paid  down  his  hundred 
pound  of  tobacco  for  a  wife,  he  is  bound  to  make  him- 
self believe  he  hath  a  bargain,  and  the  wife,  seeing  he 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  SHIP.  249 

hath  set  so  high  an  estimate  on  her  worth,  in  honor 
must  strive  to  live  up  to  his  valuation. ' ' 

"And  was  every  one  of  the  twenty  maids  married 
thus?" 

"Ay,  all  but  one,  and  she  remained  without  a  part- 
ner from  choice,  which  thou  wouldst  have  declared 
impossible.  Many  offered  for  her,  though  she  wore  her 
veil  and  coverchief  close  and  would  not  show  her  fea- 
tures. But  she  would  look  at  none,  and  went  off  at  the 
last  to  lodge  with  her  friend— one  that  was  taken  to 
wife  by  Miles  Gary.  I  was  somewhat  struck  with 
curiosity  over  the  conduct  of  the  one  unwed  maid,  and 
I  searched  out  her  name  in  the  ship's  register,  where 
she  is  set  down  as  Elizabeth  Devon.  Now,  fare  thee 
well !  for  my  five  minutes  are  over,  and  if  I  told  thee 
more,  'twould  be  what  I  know  not,  and,  ergo— lies." 

After  my  nimble-witted  friend  was  gone  his  way,  I 
Bat  for  long,  looking  down  into  the  street  and  watching 
the  bridal  couples  as  they  passed  from  under  Parson 
Buckle 's  blessing  to  their  new  homes.  All  this  billing 
and  cooing  and  setting  up  of  new  households  made  me 
feel  but  the  more  lonely  and  doleful.  So  I  went  not 
abroad  that  day,  tho '  I  was  well  enow  to  be  out,  but  sat 
reading  and  studying  with  no  other  comforter  than 
my  pipe.  But,  to  say  truth,  the  pipe  is  no  mean  con- 
soler, and  there  is  no  friend  that  doth  so  adapt  himself 
to  thine  every  mood,  so  partake,  as  it  were,  the  very 
shade  and  subtlety  of  thy  thought  and  feeling,  as 
tobacco.  Well,  as  I  sat  thus,  the  day  wore  on  to  eve- 
ning. The  flame  in  my  pipe  was  expiring  with  a  final 
flicker,  when  a  knock  sounded  at  my  door. 

* '  Come  in ! "  I  called,  and  Miles  Gary  entered. 

"Why,  how  now,  Gary!  Art  thou  come  to  complain 
of  thy  bride  of  half-a-dozen  hours  ?  Hath  she  beaten 
thee  over  the  head  with  the  new  broomstick,  and  thou 
art  ashamed  of  thy  black  eye,  and  come  to  get  it  healed 
by  stealth  after  dark  ? ' ' 

"Nay,  'tis  nowt  that,"  answered  the  burly  yeoman, 
as  he  stood  awkwardly  twirling  his  Monmouth  cap  on 
the  end  of  his  finger. 


250  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

I  saw  that  my  jests  were  less  amusing  to  him  than 
to  me ;  so  putting  off  my  jibing  tone,  I  asked  him  ser- 
iously if  aught  were  ailing  in  his  household. 

"Ay,  'tis  the  friend  of  my  wife."  He  grinned  with 
sheepish  pleasure  over  the  last  word. 

' '  Is  that  the  unwed  maid,  Elizabeth  Devon,  of  whom 
Master  Pory  spake?" 

' '  Yes ;  her  arm  was  hurt  on  the  ship  in  the  storm, 
and  methinks  it  must  have  been  ill-treated,  for,  in 
place  of  mending  it  grows  ever  worse ;  yet  have  we  had 
a  hard  task  to  persuade  her  to  see  the  leech,  and  even 
now  am  I  come  without  her  consent.  I  fear  me  she  is 
0 'er-headstrong ;  but  my  Kate  will  have  nowt  said  to 
her  save  wi '  cap  in  hand,  and  she  gives  more  attention 
to  her  friend  than  to  her  husband, ' ' 

"Well,  well,  that  is  but  natural.  Grumble  not, 
Cary ;  but  remember  that  thy  courtship  must  be  done 
after  marriage,  and  be  content  to  bear  awhile  with 
coolness. ' ' 

I  took  up  my  box  as  I  spake,  and  we  went  out  into 
the  night  together.  As  we  walked  through  the  town, 
I  marvelled  much  that  all  should  be  changed  of  a  sud- 
den. 'Twas  no  longer  a  camp,  but  a  village.  For  good 
or  evil,  the  first  English  homes  had  been  planted  here 
in  the  heart  of  the  wilderness. 

"VVe  stopped  before  Gary's  cottage,  and  I  marked  its 
shining  neatness.  The  stepping-stone  in  front  of  the 
door  was  polished  as  smooth  as  marble,  and  the  floor 
within,  for  all  it  was  but  of  logs  rudely  smoothed  with 
an  axe,  was  clean  and  neatly  set  in  order. 

As  I  stepped  into  the  kitchen,  which  served  for  hall 
end  parlor  and  dining-room  all  in  one,  I  was  greeted 
by  the  mistress  of  the  house  with  a  deep-bobbing 
courtesy  which  brought  her  short  skirt  down  over  her 
bright  stockings,  and  almost  hid  the  high  heels  and 
pointed  toes  of  her  wedding  slippers. 

"Is  thy  friend  badly  hurt?"  said  I. 

"Ay,  sir,  she  suffers  much,  but  she  bears  it  ever  with 
so  brave  a  heart  and  so  cheerful  a  face  that  none  would 
guess  it  to  look  at  her. ' ' 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  SHIP.  251 

*'Hast  thou  bandages  and  swathing-cloths  at 
hand?" 

"Nay,  not  rightly  at  hand,  but  a  plenty  in  the  sea- 
chest,  which  hath  not  yet  been  opened.  Wilt  thou  lend 
a  hand— Miles?" 

I  could  but  smile  to  watch  the  coquetry  with  which 
the  name  was  spoken,  and  to  see  how  a  soft  tone  and 
glance  oiled  the  wheels  of  life  and  made  the  half-sulky 
husband  her  willing  slave. 

Foreseeing  that  the  uncording  of  the  chest  would  be 
a  matter  of  time,  I  stepped  to  the  door  of  the  nearer 
chamber  (the  house  boasted  but  two),  and  finding  it 
ajar,  I  bowed  my  head  to  its  low  porportions  and 
entered. 

The  room  had  been  filled  with  flowers,  in  honor  of 
the  home-coming  of  the  bride.  'Tis  wonderful  to  me 
how  thoughtful  and  tender  to  women  these  rough  fel- 
lows oft  be.  The  window-sash,  its  panes  filled  with 
oiled  paper,  was  swung  open  and  the  night  wind  blew 
the  perfume  of  wildrose  and  honeysuckle  in  my  face. 
I  can  feel  it  still.  A  single  candle  shed  a  dim  light 
around  and  threw  a  yellow  ray  on  a  wooden  armchair 
close  to  the  table. 

As  I  turned  me  toward  this  chair,  suddenly  my 
heart  stopped  beating.  If  the  thing  had  not  been  so 
wildly  impossible,  I  could  have  sworn  it  was  Elizabeth 
Romney  herself  sitting  there.  The  maid,  whoever  she 
was,  had  the  same  delicate  curve  of  ear  and  throat, 
the  same  droop  of  the  eyelid,  the  very  trick  of  the 
hand  lying  open  palm  upward  on  the  knee. 

I  brushed  my  hand  across  my  eyes  and  looked  again. 
My  God !— Incredible !— It  could  not  be!— yet  what  a 
likeness ! 

Then  I  told  myself  that  I  was  going  mad  from  dwel- 
ling too  long  on  one  thought.  I  must  speak  and  break 
the  spell.  As  I  opened  my  lips,  a  sudden  searching 
conviction  fell  upon  me  like  a  lightning  flash  that  this 
was  indeed  she,  the  one  woman  in  the  world  to  me. 
I  gasped  out:    ^^ Elizabeth!" 


252  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

The  maiden  turned,  and  for  the  first  time  caught 
sight  of  me  standing  thus  in  the  doorway.  She  gave 
one  low  cry  of  *'T1iou!" 

After  that  one  word  we  faced  each  other  in  blank 
silence.  The  folk  in  boolis  have  ever  some  pat  speech 
ready  for  such  a  moment ;  but  in  real  life  'tis  not  so. 
How  could  I  speak  when  my  brain  was  whirling  like  a 
mill  wheel,  and  my  voice  choked  in  my  throat  ?  I  stood 
still  and  looked  upon  her,  and  the  longer  I  looked,  the 
harder  I  found  it  to  believe  my  eyes  were  not  playing 
me  a  trick. 

Yet  'twas  but  the  truth  they  told  me.  There  she 
sat— she  that  had  been  brought  up  to  be  tended  and 
waited  upon,  and  compassed  about  with  luxuries,  now 
sick  and  suffering,  with  only  a  wooden  armchair  to 
rest  upon,  and  a  cottage  roof  to  shelter  her.  How,  in 
God's  name,  had  it  come  to  pass? 

Her  face  was  deadly  pale,  for  all  she  had  been  three 
months  on  the  sea;  and  now,  as  she  gazed  at  me,  she 
grew  even  whiter,  and  swayed  as  though  she  would 
fall  in  a  swoon.  But  all  the  while  she  kept  her  eyes 
fixed  steadfastly  on  mine.  They  were  eyes  never  to  be 
forgotten  by  one  who  had  seen  them  once.  I  have 
heard  folks  praise  the  brilliancy  of  her  glance  and  the 
curling  length  of  her  eyelashes ;  but,  to  her  lover,  there 
lay  a  subtler  charm  in  the  tender  trouble  of  her  eye- 
brows, bending  slightly  downward  toward  the  inner 
corner.  I  noted  it  now  as  distinctly  as  the  drowning 
man  counts  the  bubbles  in  the  water. 

I  was  the  first  to  find  my  voice,  and  I  hated  myself 
that  it  sounded  hard  and  stern,  when  I  was  mad  to 
fling  myself  at  her  feet  and  entreat  her  to  trust  herself 
to  me.  But  that  abominable  diffidence  of  mine,  which 
is  so  akin  to  pride,  made  me  seem  in  her  eyes,  I  doubt 
not,  like  a  pragmatical  schoolmaster  chiding  a  recreant 
child. 

''Elizabeth  Romney!— am  I  dreaming,  or  is  it 
indeed  thou— come  on  the  ship  with  the  maids?" 

An  angry  flush  swept  over  the  whiteness  of  her 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  SHIP.  253 

cheek  and  rose  to  meet  the  hair  that  curled  in  childish 
rings  round  her  little  ears, 

' '  Thou  art  thinking,  perhaps,  that  I,  too,  like  these 
others,  am  come  three  thousand  miles  in  search  of  a 
husband?" 

I  knew  not  what  to  say,  and  so  I  said  nowt. 

''Well,  believe  't  if  you  will!"  she  flung  out,  her 
eyes  one  blaze  of  wrath;  *'but  believe  not  that  thou 
art  such  a  husband  as  I  would  seek— not  though  thou 
wert  the  only  man  on  this  side  of  the  ocean,  and 
though  all  the  tobacco  in  Virginia  were  the  price  in 
thine  hand. ' ' 

"I  am  not  likely  to  believe  that.  Mistress  Betty,"  I 
answered  bitterly.  "Yet  would  I  rather  believe  any- 
thing than  that  this  journey  is  a  mad  prank  of  thine 
without  rhyme  or  reason.  Wild  and  venturesome 
thou  hast  ever  been,  but  never  unmindful  of  thy  sex 
or  thy  station." 

"Which  means  that  now  I  have  shown  myself 
unmindful  of  both.  I  thank  thee,  Humphrey  Hun- 
toon;  but  till  I  seek  thy  counsel,  do  thou  keep  thy 
censure ! ' ' 

I  know  not  what  we  might  have  spoken  further,  for 
anger  was  hot  in  both  our  hearts ;  but  at  that  instant 
Dame  Gary  and  her  good  man  came  in,  bearing  a  roll 
of  linen  and  a  whale-oil  lamp,  which,  vile  smelling  as 
it  was,  gave  a  brighter  light  than  the  candle. 

As  it  shone  on  the  maiden's  face,  the  look  of  illness 
and  suffering  was  more  plain  to  be  seen ;  and  I  cursed 
myself  for  a  fool  that  I  had  forgotten  all  this  time  the 
arm  I  had  been  called  to  tend.  I  took  the  linen  from 
Dame  Gary's  hand  and  tore  it  into  strips. 

*  *  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  let  me  see  the  hurt  ? "  I 
asked,  in  a  constrained  voice.  Without  a  word,  she 
threw  back  her  short  cape  and  showed  me  the  right 
arm  wound  round  and  round  with  clumsy  swathings, 
which  I  straightway  set  to  work  to  unwind.  It  was 
well  that  my  calling  had  trained  the  fingers  to  work 
coolly. 


254  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

I  went  near  to  breaking  out  into  oaths  when  I  laid 
bare  the  arm  and  saw  how  great  a  bungler  had  had 
charge  of  the  hurt  there  on  the  ship.  As  it  was,  that 
which  had  been  so  ill  done  must  be  undone. 

The  doing  of  this  cruel  kindness  went  near  to  break 
my  heart,  yet  she  who  suffered  bore  it  without  a  groan. 
The  free  hand  grasped  the  arm  of  the  chair  more 
closely,  and  the  face  was  set  in  the  look  of  one  who 
would  die  ere  look  or  sound  of  weakness  be  wrung 
from  her.  Only  the  sharper  drawing  down  of  the  eye- 
brow marked  the  strain  and  stress  of  suffering. 

At  length,  after  a  time  which  seemed  to  me  longer 
than  any  month  I  have  known  since,  the  poor  arm  was 
rebound  in  a  pair  of  splints  hastily  made  from  barrel 
staves.  As  I  swathed  it  in  band  over  band  of  linen,  I 
turned  to  Dame  Gary— I  dared  not  trust  my  voice  to 
address  that  other.  ''Your  friend,"  quoth  I,  ''hath  an 
excellent  courage." 

* '  That  hath  she ! ' '  broke  in  Miles  Gary,  who  had  the 
true  English  love  of  bravery,  and  who,  as  he  stood  by, 
holding  the  lamp  while  I  worked,  had  been  greatly, 
stirred  by  the  sight  of  the  maid 's  endurance.  ' '  Had  we 
but  a  company  of  soldiers  like  her,  we  had  no  need 
of  a  stockade  round  about  James  Gity. ' ' 

"Ay,"  put  in  his  wife,  "but  ye  should  have  seen  her 
on  the  sea!  In  that  great  storm  when  her  arm  was 
broke,  she  was  the  only  one  of  us  that  screamed  not, 
nor  wailed,  nor  wished  herself  on  land ;  but  went  about 
cheering  and  encouraging  all. ' ' 

Methought  I  saw  a  glance  of  warning  pass  from 
the  girl  in  the  chair  to  the  woman  in  waiting,  for  she 
straightway  brake  off  her  discourse,  and  spake  quite 
sharply  to  her  husband,  bidding  him  go  before  with 
the  light,  that  we  might  follow  without  breaking  our 
necks. 

So  they  went  out  and  I  walked  behind  them  stu- 
pidly as  far  as  the  door.  There  I  found  my  wits,  and, 
turning  back,  I  stepped  close  to  the  armchair. 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  SHIP.  255 

* '  The  doctor, ' '  quoth  I,  in  a  low  voice,  ' '  craves  par- 
don for  the  hurt  he  could  not  help." 

"The  doctor,"  she  replied,  also  speaking  very  soft, 
"is  pardoned  in  advance,  for  he  hath  but  done  his 
duty.  For  the  friend,  'tis  another  matter.  I  cannot 
soon  forget  that  he  has  failed  me." 

"Yet  he,  too,  hath  but  thy  good  at  heart,  and  that 
thou  wilt  some  day  confess ;  and  so  must  I  leave  thee. 
Good-night,  madam ! ' ' 

I  spoke  the  last  words  in  a  louder  tone,  and,  bowing 
low,  I  passed  out  of  the  chamber. 

Maud  Wilder  Goodwin. 


XVIII 

DR.  PENNINGTON'S  COUNTRY 
PRACTICE. 


^^  EXT  to  her  husband  and  her  children  there 
*j*  was  nothing  that  Mrs.  Graham  liked  better 
i^^Bl  than  worrying  herself.  To  a  degree  far  be- 
yond that  attained  by  any  other  woman  in  Marston, 
she  enjoyed  "the  luxury  of  woe,"  and  during  the  last 
few  days  she  had  been  indulging  in  it  without  stint. 
For  during  those  days  there  had  been  five  burglaries 
in  that  town,  and  the  little  place,  ordinarily  no  more 
excited  than  most  summer  resorts,  had  become  almost 
hysterical.  First  of  all  the  post-office  had  been  robbed, 
and  then,  as  though  that  robbery  had  been  merely  by 
way  of  practice,  the  thieves  on  the  next  night  had 
broken  into  a  private  house.  Other  robberies  had  fol- 
lowed in  quick  and  defiant  succession,  and  within 
twenty-four  hours  the  little  red  brick  railroad-station 
on  Orawaupum  Street  had  been  broken  into,  and  the 
money  in  the  safe  stolen.  Then  indeed  there  was  ex- 
citement, for,  as  in  all  small  towns  not  too  remote  from 
large  cities,  the  station  was  the  real  centre  of  town 
life,  and  its  misfortune  was  looked  on  almost  as  a  sac- 
rilege. 

Even  the  summer  residents  seemed  to  consider  it  as 
such,  and  when,  as  was  the  custom  at  Marston,  the 
ladies  drove  down  to  the  station  in  the  late  afternoon 
to  meet  their  husbands  on  their  return  from  the  city, 
not  one  but  looked  at  the  little  red  building  as  though 
she  expected  to  hear  it  cry  out  against  the  profana- 
tion. 

The  older  ladies  sat  comfortably  in  their  carriages, 
and,  in  voices  pitched  high  because  they  were  in  the 

(266) 


•^KS 


DR.  uUNTRY 


g 


a  degree  far  Iv, 

'ig  in  it  without  stint 

■  In  .  r,  Hve  burglarit;: 

.1  iruaril}^  no  mor 

iiad  become  almos 

Violent  /'^^z:/.  '    tl  been  robbed, 

.  Li  Deen  merely  by 

:ie  next  night  ha' 

'  heries  had  fo' 

-.11,  and  withi-: 

'  brick  railroad-static r; 
into,  and  th' 

.-  there  wa«  .•" 

ns  not  too  remote 

e  of  tuv\  t 
...  stasasar- 
ii  to  consider  it  as 
.a...„ji  at  Marston,  tht 
tntion  in  the  late  afternoon 
-  return  from  th 

—  red  building  as  th 

:'  out  against  the  prof  an?. 

•mfortably  in  their  carriages, 
,  because  they  were  in  th-. 


DR.  PENNINGTON'S  COUNTRY  PRACTICE.     257 

open  air,  talked  volubly  of  the  burglaries.  One  and 
all  agreed  that  they  would  never  have  expected  a  bur- 
glary in  Marston,  and  Mrs.  Graham,  by  reason  of  her 
power  of  self-worry,  speedily  obtained  a  high  and 
commanding  position  among  them  as  a  sort  of  possible 
martyr.  The  younger  ladies,  at  the  urgent  entreaties 
of  their  own  or  their  friends'  inquisitive  little  broth- 
ers, left  their  carriages  and  moved  in  a  pretty  crowd 
upon  the  station.  There  the  boys  pointed  out  the 
drawers  from  which  the  money  had  been  stolen,  and 
the  girls  examined  them  from  a  distance  with  respect- 
ful interest.  There,  too,  they  saw  the  station-master 
in  close  conversation  with  an  important-looking  per- 
son, while  a  young  man  seated  on  the  desk  in  the 
office  swung  his  legs  vigorously  and  looked  bored.  He 
brightened  up  obviously,  however,  at  the  sudden  in- 
flux of  pretty  girls,  and  removed  his  hat.  The  other 
men  merely  glanced  at  the  intruders  and  continued 
their  conversation. 

When  they  had  seen  everything,  the  young  ladies 
retreated  to  the  platform,  from  which  they  carried 
on  an  animated  conversation  with  their  elders  in  the 
carriages,  while  the  bored  young  man  came  to  the  win- 
dow and  looked  at  them  with  admiration. 

Suddenly  all  the  talk  was  checked.  Then  a  mur- 
mur of  respectful  admiration  ran  through  the  crowd 
of  ladies,  and  the  coachmen  sat  up  straighter  and 
flicked  their  horses.  Even  the  ubiquitous  small  boys 
became  silent,  as  into  the  station  yard  whirled  an 
open  carriage  in  which  sat  a  young  and  very 
pretty  woman.  As  soon  as  it  had  drawn  up  near  the 
platform,  the  talk  began  again,  this  time  all  directed 
at  its  occupant. 

"How  do  you  do  to-day,  Mrs.  Marmaduke?"  was 
the  first  remark  from  everybody,  with  a  rising  inflec- 
tion on  the  second  syllable  of  "to-day;"  and  when 
Mrs.  Marmaduke  had  replied  that  she  was  very  well, 
there  was  a  chorus  of  almost  incredulous  congratula- 
tion. Then  there  was  a  hush,  broken  in  a  moment  by 
Mrs,  Graham. 

2-17 


258  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

"Have  you  heard  anything  of  your  silver  yet?"  she 
began.  Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  she  contin- 
ued, "I  wonder  how  you  bear  it  so  well.  I'm  sure  I 
shouldn't.  I'm  dreadfully  afraid  of  burglars,  and  I 
know  it  would  kill  me  to  know  that  they  were  in  the 
house. ' ' 

"But  I  didn't  know  it,"  said  Mrs.  Marmaduke, 
with  superiority.  "Not  even  Mr,  Marmaduke  knew 
that  they  had  been  there  until  afterwards." 

"Ah,  yes,"  returned  Mrs.  Graham;  "but  to  find 
out,  even  afterwards,  that  the  horrid  men  had  been 
there— ugh!— and  had  taken  all  your  silver— every 
bit  of  it-" 

"They  left  some,"  coolly  interrupted  the  heroine. 
Mrs.  Graham  pretended  not  to  hear  her. 

"You  should  have  had  a  burglar-alarm,"  she  said, 
patronizingly.  "Mr.  Graham  is  going  to  have  one 
put  in  for  me." 

"We  have  a  burglar-alarm,"  answered  Mrs.  Mar- 
maduke.   "But  it  was  out  of  order." 

' '  Oh,  how  annoying ! ' '  chorused  all  the  listeners  ex- 
cept Mrs.  Graham,  who  sank  back  in  her  seat  and  sig- 
nalled for  her  daughter  Clara  to  come  to  her. 

Just  then  the  train  came  around  the  curve  below 
the  station,  and  all  the  adventurous  girls  retreated  to 
their  carriages.  Out  from  his  office  ran  the  old  sta- 
tion-master, followed  by  the  important-looking  man 
and  by  the  bored  young  man.  The  man  who  carried 
the  mail-bag  to  the  postoffice  sauntered  up,  and  for  an 
instant  everything  was  expectation.  Then  expecta- 
tion became  reality  and  confusion  as  the  train  came 
to  a  stop.  For  a  moment  there  was  an  outpouring  of 
passengers,  then  a  thinning  out  of  the  crowd,  and  then 
a  sort  of  stampede  of  the  carriages  for  the  post-office, 
until,  when  the  train  started  again,  only  Mrs.  Mar- 
maduke's  and  Mrs.  Graham's  remained.  Mrs.  Mar- 
maduke lay  back  in  hers,  looking  at  her  husband,  as 
he  stood  on  the  platform  talking  to  the  bored  young 
man,   while   Mrs.    Graham,   after   looking   carefully 


£)}?.  PENNINGTON'S  COUNTRY  PRACTICE.     259 

around  for  her  husband,  sank  back  without  being  able 
to  find  him.  Clara  Graham  had  looked  also,  and  when 
she  could  find  neither  her  father  nor  her  brother  she 
began  again  the  conversation  interrupted  by  the  ar- 
rival of  the  train. 

"There  were  two  burglars,  mamma,"  she  said. 
"One  was  rather  an  old  man,  they  say,  while  the  other 
was  much  younger.  And  of  course  there  must  have 
been  a  third  one  to  watch — " 

"Drive  on,  George,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Graham; 
and  the  coachman  had  just  turned  from  the  platform 
when  the  gray-bearded  station-master  ran  out. 

' '  Hi,  there !  Mrs,  Graham ! "  he  shouted,  waving  a 
brown  envelope,  and  as  the  carriage  stopped  with  a 
jerk,  the  old  man  plunged  down  from  the  platform 
and  ran  to  it. 

"A  telegram  from  Mr.  Graham,"  he  explained, 
and,  while  Mrs.  Graham  opened  it  hurriedly,  he 
waited  with  one  hand  on  the  wheel-guard. 

"Who  were  those  two  men  talking  with  you,  Mr. 
Underbill?"  asked  Clara  Graham,  inquisitively. 

"Wal,  the  gentleman  wi'  the  red  beard— him 
a-standin'  in  the  doorway  noaw,"  answered  the  old 
man,  pointing  towards  the  station,  "is  the  represent- 
ative o'  th'  Martson  Enterprise, — Mr.  Long  his  name 
is.  An'  t'other  one,  him  a-talkin'  to  Mr.  Marm'duke, 
's  'porter  fur  one  o'  th'  Noo  York  papers,— I  don' 
rightly  know's  name." 

"Clara,"  said  Mrs.  Graham,— "There's  no  answer, 
Mr.  Underbill.  Drive  on,  George.  Clara,  your  father 
won't  be  home  to-night;  he  and  Phil  are  detained  by 
business.  They  won't  be  home  until  to-morrow  night." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Clara,  cheerfully,  "of  course  we 
shall  miss  them,  but  I  think  we  can  get  along  one  night 
without  them." 

"Ordinarily,  yes,"  her  mother  answered,  promptly, 
Mrs,  Graham  did  not  like  to  be  considered  dependent 
even  on  her  husband.  "Ordinarily,  most  certainly. 
But  there  are  these  awful  burglars,  and  we  haven't 
a  man  in  the  house. ' ' 


260  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

"There's  George,  mamma,"  suggested  Clara.  But 
George  with  great  promptness,  spoke  over  his  shoul- 
der, as  old  coachmen  have  a  way  of  doing : 

"Please,  mem,  I've  got  to  be  'ome  to-night,  because 
o'  my  wife  h'end  the  baby  as  she  h 'expects." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Graham,  slowly,  "George  is  right-, 
he  must  be  at  home.  Could  your  Cousin  "Will  come, 
do  you  think,  Clara?— No:  he's  away,  too.  There's 
Mr.  Frisbie;  we  might  ask  him  to  take  care  of  us. 
No  sensible  burglars  would  think  of  robbing  the  par- 
sonage. ' ' 

"No,  I  don't  suppose  they  would,"  answered  Clara. 
"But  then  Mr.  Frisbie  wouldn't  leave  Mrs.  Frisbie 
and  the  little  baby  alone.  And  then  suppose  the  bur- 
glars were  not  sensible—" 

'  *  They  must  be, ' '  said  Mrs.  Graham,  with  decision, 
"or  they  wouldn't  have  broken  into  the  Marmadukes' 
house." 

"Oh,  mamma,"  suggested  Clara,  "couldn't  we  tele- 
graph to  somebody  to  come  out  to  us  ?  We  might  have 
a  messenger-boy  sent  out,  or  two  or  three,  if  you 
wanted. ' ' 

"I've  got  a  boy,  miss,"  said  George,  the  coachman. 
"  'E  might  take  care  o'  ye,  mem,  over  night." 

But  when  she  found  that  George's  boy  was  only 
nine  years  old,  Mrs.  Graham  shook  her  head. 

"He's  too  young.  And  I  do  not  want  messenger- 
boys.  They  would  be  so  slow,  and  they  wear  great 
rubber  trousers  and  always  have  their  hands  in  their 
pockets."  This  was  said  very  slowly  and  thoughtfully. 

"We  might  telegraph  to  some  friend  in  the  city, 
mamma,"  suggested  Clara.  "He  could  come  out  on 
the  ten  o'clock  train,  and  get  here  before  eleven.  I 
don't  suppose  the  burglars  would  come  before 
eleven." 

' '  Oh,  no.  They  never  come  before  eleven  o  'clock, ' ' 
said  Mrs.  Graham,  as  decidedly  as  though  she  had 
served  an  apprenticeship  with  a  burglar  and  knew  all 
the  rules  governing  his  entrance  into  the  best  houses. 


DR.  PENNINGTON'S  COUNTRY  PRACTICE.     261 

The  idea  of  telegraphing  to  a  friend  evidently  pleased 
her.     "We  might  telegraph  to— to— " 

"We  might  telegraph  to  Dr.  Pennington,"  sug- 
gested Clara,  with  just  the  suspicion  of  a  blush.  '*He 
would  be  sure  to  come." 

Her  mother  did  not  notice  the  blush,  and  was  evi- 
dently considering  the  question  of  telegraphing.  Just 
then  the  carriage  turned  in  at  the  Grahams'  gate. 

"We  muct  telegraph,"  said  Mrs.  Graham,  nodding 
her  head  with  great  decision.  "Yes,  we  must  tele- 
graph, and  to  Dr.  Pennington." 

It  was  later  than  usual  that  evening  when  Dr.  John 
Pennington  dropped  into  the  little  French  restaurant 
near  his  office,  to  which  his  bachelorhood  doomed  him, 
and,  as  almost  every  one  else  had  gone,  he  was  forced 
to  eat  a  solitary  meal.  As  he  looked  carelessly 
through  an  evening  paper  which  he  had  taken  up  to 
pass  the  time,  he  happened  to  notice  the  following 
bit  of  news : 

"The  village  of  Marston  is  very  much  excited  over 
several  burglaries  committed  there  recently.  The  resi- 
dence of  E.  L.  Marmaduke,  a  wealthy  merchant  of 
New  York  City,  was  entered  on  Tuesday  night,  and 
a  large  quantity  of  jewelry  and  silver  stolen.  Last 
night,  after  visiting  several  houses  with  little  success, 
the  burglars  broke  into  the  railroad-station.  Many 
commutation  tickets  had  been  renewed  the  day  be- 
fore, and  the  burglars  secured  nearly  two  hundred 
dollars  in  money.  There  are  supposed  to  be  three  men 
in  the  gang.    No  clue  to  them  has  yet  been  found. ' ' 

"I  wonder,"  thought  the  doctor,  as  he  slowly  sipped 
his  coffee,  ''I  wonder  if  they  have  been  to  the  Gra- 
hams' yet.  If  they  have,  I'll  wager  a  large  amount— 
I'd  go  as  high  as  my  last  year's  professional  income— 
that  Mrs.  Graham  is  now  in  a  state  of  violent  hyster- 
ics. If  they  haven't,  she  has  at  least  sufficient  ma- 
terial to  keep  her  in  a  state  of  worry  for  about  one 
year."  He  finished  his  coffee.  "I  believe  I'll  run 
out  to  Marston  to-morrow,"  he  continued,  thought- 


262  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

fully;  "that  is,  if  I'm  not  too  much  occupied."  (Pen- 
nington religiously  made  this  reservation,  though 
since  he  had  become  a  doctor  he  had  never  been  too 
much  occupied.)  "I  haven't  been  there  for  a  long 
time,  and  the  burglaries  will  give  me  a  good  excuse 
for  leaving  my  patients." 

Having  made  this  determination,  he  dismissed  the 
matter  from  his  mind,  and,  finishing  his  coffee,  sat  in 
silence  till  he  had  smoked  his  cigar.  Then  he  went 
home  to  take  up  his  usual  task  of  waiting  for  patients. 
AVhen  he  reached  his  rooms,  he  found  Mrs.  Graham's 
telegram  on  his  table  It  was  as  enigmatical  as 
women's  communications  generally  are,  and  was 
worded  thus: 

"Will  you  kindly  take  ten-o'clock  train  and  spend 
night  with  us  ?    Will  explain  on  arrival. ' ' 

* '  Spend  the  night  ?  AYill  explain  on  arrival  ?  WTiat 
on  earth  can  the  woman  mean?"  cried  the  doctor. 
"Can  any  of  the  family  be  sick,  I  wonder?  If  so, 
why  should  she  send  for  me,  when  there  must  be  other 
doctors  near  by?  No:  that  can't  be  the  reason."  But, 
as  he  could  think  of  no  other  explanation,  he  accepted 
this  one  as  the  most  plausible,  and  decided  to  take 
his  case  of  medicines  with  him  to  Marston.  Looking 
at  his  watch,  he  saw  that  he  could  barely  catch  the 
train,  and  hastily  began  to  pack  his  handbag.  Then, 
telling  his  landlady  that  he  would  be  back  in  the 
morning,  he  called  a  cab,  and  reached  the  station  with 
five  minutes  to  spare. 

A  night  ride  in  an  accommodation  train  is  not  ex- 
citing, and  Pennington's  trip  to  Marston  was  monoto- 
nous enough.  He  did  not  dare  to  read  by  the  villain- 
ous light,  and  so  he  devoted  his  time  to  speculating 
on  Mrs.  Graham's  telegram.  He  stepped  from  the 
train  at  Marston,  however,  without  having  come  to 
any  definite  conclusion  on  the  subject. 

"I  think,  sir,"  said  an  elderly  coachman,  stepping 
up  to  the  young  doctor  and  touching  his  hat,  ' '  I  think 
you  must  be  the  gentl'n  h 'expected  at  the  Grahams'. 


DR.  PENNINGTON'S  COUNTRY  PRACTICE.     263 

Will  you  step  this  way,  sir?  I  'ave  the  buggy  'ere. 
These  burglaries  are  h 'awful,  ain't  they,  sir?"  he  be- 
gan, as  he  touched  up  the  little  mare, 

"Burglaries?"  said  Pennington.  "Oh,  yes,  I  did 
read  about  some  burglaries  up  here—" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  man,  "an'  Mrs.  Graham  is 
just  scared  out  o'  her  senses,  sir,  an'  when  she  got  the 
telegram  from  Mr.  Graham,  sir,— come  up,  Jess,— 
sayin'  that  neither  he  nor  Mr.  Phil  'ud  be  up  to-night, 
she  sent  for  you  't  once.  Ye  see,  sir,"  he  continued, 
waxing  confidential,  "I'm  out  o'  the  runnin',  on  ac- 
count o'  the  visitor  h 'expected  at  my  'ouse  to-night." 

For  the  first  time  it  dawned  upon  the  doctor  that 
it  was  not  for  his  professional  services  that  he  was 
wanted,  but  more  heroic  ones,  and  he  wished  that  he 
had  left  his  case  of  medicines  at  home.  Old  George, 
however,  gave  him  little  time  for  thought,  but  enter- 
tained him  with  accounts,  partly  real,  partly  fictitious, 
of  the  daring  and  ferocity  of  the  burglars  who  in- 
fested the  village,  until  the  doctor  began  to  wish  that 
Mrs.  Graham  had  been  able  to  secure  any  other  pro- 
tector than  himself. 

As  the  carriage  rolled  up  to  the  house,  the  door 
opened,  and  Mrs.  Graham,  evidently  on  the  watch, 
rushed  out. 

' '  Oh,  Dr.  Pennington ! ' '  she  cried,  excitedly.  ' '  You 
can't  tell  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you !  I  Jiope  you  don't 
think  it  presuming  in  me  to  send  for  you?" 

"Not  at  all,"  began  Pennington,  getting  out  of  the 
carriage ;  but  Mrs.  Graham  noticed  his  medicine-case, 
and  interrupted  him. 

"You've  brought  your  pistols,"  she  exclaimed. 
"How  splendid  of  you  to  think  of  them  I" 

"Do  not  for  one  instant  think  that  you  presumed 
in  sending  for  me,"  said  Pennington,  as  he  ran  lightly 
up  the  steps  and  took  Mrs.  Graham's  outstretched 
hand.  "You  know,  Mrs.  Graham,  that  it  can  only  be 
a  pleasure  to  me  to  be  of  any  service  to  you  or  Miss 
Clara." 


264  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

* '  It  is  very  good  of  you,  I  'm  sure,  and  I  shall  never 
forget  it ;  but  now  come  right  into  the  library,  Clara 
will  be  delighted  to  see  an  old  friend  who  has  come 
in  time  of  need.  It  was  she  who  suggested  sending 
for  you,"  added  Mrs.  Graham,  and  Pennington 
blushed  with  pleasure.  ''It's  very  strange,"  went  on 
the  lady,  "that  Clara  isn't  half  so  worried  about  the 
burglars  as  I  am,  when  it  generally  takes  so  much 
to  worry  me.  Clara,  here  is  Dr.  Pennington,  pistols 
and  all;  wasn't  it  good  of  him  to  come?"  she  con- 
cluded, as  she  entered  the  library.  Clara  came  for- 
v/ard  to  greet  Pennington,  blushing  slightly,  and  look- 
ing so  charming  that  he  felt  he  would  be  glad  to  have 
the  burglars  come,  that  he  might  have  the  pleasure 
of  defending  her. 

*'I  have  just  told  Mrs.  Graham,  Miss  Clara,"  said 
Pennington,  "that  the  goodness  is  all  on  her  side. 
You  can't  realize  how  pleasant  it  is  to  see  you  again. 
As  for  my  pistols,"  he  added,  carefully  laying  down 
his  medicine-case,  "it  overwhelms  me  with  mortifica- 
tion to  confess  that  I  have  left  the  key  of  my  case 
behind." 

"Perhaps  it  is  best  that  you  did,"  said  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham, while  Clara  laughed. 

"Don't  worry  about  that,  Dr.  Pennington,"  she 
said,  tapping  the  case  lightly.  "Wait  a  moment,  and 
I  will  bring  something  that  will  do  as  well  as  the  pis- 
tols you  have  here."  And  she  ran  from  the  room. 
When  she  returned,  Mrs.  Graham  was  insisting  that 
Pennington  should  take  something  to  eat. 

"Here  is  a  weapon,"  cried  Clara,  gaily,  holding  up 
an  old-fashioned  muzzle-loading  horse-pistol.  She 
handed  it  to  Pennington,  who  colored  as  he  took  it. 
"I  think  that  will  frighten  the  burglars,"  she  panted, 
looking  at  Pennington  and  laughing. 

"Clara,"  said  Mrs.  Graham,  "I  wouldn't  have  that 
thing  fired  off  in  the  house  for  the  world.  Your  father 
fired  it  off  once  at  a  cat,  and  the  noise  it  made  gave  me 
a  nervous  shock  I  didn  't  get  over  for  a  week.    Besides, 


DR.  PENNINGTON'S  COUNTRY  PRACTICE.     265 

it  brought  in  all  the  neighbors,— and  some  of  them 
were  very  common  people,— who  thought  we  had  had  a 
dynamite  explosion  here. ' ' 

"But  this  ancient  fire-arm  has  no  hammer,"  said 
Pennington,  after  examining  it.  "A  pistol  without  a 
hammer,  Mrs.  Graham,  is  like  a  man  without  a  head,— 
comparatively  useless." 

"My  ignorance  of  such  things,"  said  Mrs.  Graham, 
with  a  shudder,  "is  something  stupendous,  and  I  hope 
you  won't  laugh  at  me  when  I  ask  what  the  hammer  of 
a  pistol  is?" 

"Let  me  show  you,  mamma,"  cried  Clara,  jumping 
up  and  taking  the  pistol  from  Pennington 's  hands. 

"Be  careful,  Clara,  be  careful,"  cried  Mrs.  Graham, 
evidently  alarmed  at  its  proximity.  "Are  you  quite 
sure  that  it  won't  go  off  by  itself?" 

* '  Quite  sure, ' '  answered  the  doctor.  But  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham's  fears  could  not  be  allayed  until  Pennington  had 
placed  the  pistol  on  the  bookcase.  She  gave  a  sigh  of 
relief. 

"I  am  sure  that  we  shall  not  need  a  pistol,"  said 
Pennington,  ' '  for  burglars  never  come  where  they  are 
expected." 

"Perhaps  that  is  so,"  answered  Mrs.  Graham.  "I 
know  that  I  am  awfully  timid  about  them.  But,  doc- 
tor—could you— would  you— do  you  mind  sleeping  on 
this  lounge  tonight?" 

"Not  in  the  least,"  cried  Pennington.  ",Why,  Mrs. 
Graham,  it  looks  extremely  comfortable." 

"  It  is  very  comfortable, ' '  said  Clara,  giving  it  a  lit- 
tle pat  by  way  of  enforcing  her  remark.  "It  is  quite 
out  of  the  ordinary  run  of  lounges,  I  often  take 
naps  on  it  myself. ' ' 

* '  That  settles  it, ' '  cried  Pennington.  "Now  not  even 
wild  horses  could  drag  me  to  a  bed  of  ease. ' ' 

"I  am  very  grateful  to  you,"  said  Mrs.  Graham, 
who  did  not  look  upon  the  matter  as  a  trifling  sacrifice 
for  the  doctor  to  make.  "I  think  we  can  make  you 
comfortable,  however. ' ' 


266  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

"Of  course  you  can,  Mrs.  Grraliam;  and  then  just 
think  of  the  fame  that  awaits  me  if  the  burglars  do 
come.  Why,  the  papers  will  be  full  of  me.  'Dr.  Pen- 
nington defends  two  helpless  ladies  from  desperate 
burglars.  His  only  weapon  a  horse-pistol  without  a 
hammer,'  and  so  on." 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  joke  about  such  horrid 
men ;  the  very  thought  of  them  makes  me  shudder.  But 
we  mustn't  keep  you  up  all  night,  doctor.  It  is  long 
after  eleven.  Clara,  take  my  hand;  you  couldn't  per- 
suade me  to  go  up  the  stairs  by  myself.  Doctor,  would 
you  mind  standing  in  the  hall  till  we  get  to  our 
rooms—" 

' '  Like  the  White  Knight  and  Alice, ' '  laughed  Clara. 
* '  You  remember  he  asked  Alice  to  wait  till  he  was  out 
of  sight,  because  her  presence  would  cheer  him—" 

"Clara,  you  saucy  girl!"  cried  her  mother.  "Doc- 
tor, I  will  send  Bridget  down  to  make  up  a  bed  on  the 
lounge.  Good  night,"  she  called  again,  as  she  reached 
her  room. 

"Don't  treat  the  poor  burglars  too  cruelly,  Dr.  Pen- 
nington," cried  Clara,  looking  over  the  baluster,  and 
then  with  a  laugh  she  vanished. 

"I  wonder  what  she  meant  by  that,"  thought  Pen- 
nington, as  he  went  back  to  the  library.  In  a  minute 
Bridget  appeared  with  sheets  and  blankets,  and  in  a 
short  time  had  made  up  a  bed  on  the  broad  lounge. 
Then  she  departed  and  Pennington  was  left  alone. 

"Suppose  the  burglars  should  come,"  he  thought, 
as  he  prepared  to  turn  in.  "But  it's  not  likely  they 
will.  At  any  rate,  I  mustn't  let  my  imagination  run 
away  with  me;  so  here  goes."  And  with  that  he 
turned  out  the  gas  and  settled  himself  on  the  lounge, 
where,  in  spite  of  discomforts  present  and  burglars  to 
be,  he  was  soon  fast  asleep. 

Ke  had  been  asleep,  it  seemed  to  him,  for  hours, 
when  he  suddenly  sat  up,  wide  awake  in  an  instant. 
Had  he  dreamed  that  he  had  heard  footsteps  at  the 
back  of  the  house,  or  was  there  really  some  one  moving 


DR.  PENNINGTON'S  COUNTRY  PRACTICE.     267 

about  ?  Pennington  listened  with  every  nerve  strained 
to  its  utmost  tension.  There  it  goes  again !  He  was 
sure  he  heard  a  noise.  It  came  from  the  dining-room— 
and  it  sounded  like  the  rattling  of  silver. 

They're  here,"  he  muttered,  and  drew  a  long  breath. 
"What  in  thunder  am  I  to  do-?  Ah !  I'll  get  that  old 
pistol  and  use  the  poker  as  a  hammer;  the  old  thing  has 
a  cap  on  it."  Crawling  softly  from  the  lounge,  he 
groped  his  way  towards  the  fireplace.  The  room  was 
as  dark  as  a  pocket,  and  before  he  had  finished  his  un- 
certain journey  he  struck  his  foot  smartly  against  the 
coal-scuttle.  It  rattled.  He  made  a  dive  to  stop  it 
from  falling,  and  in  so  doing  upset  it.  It  fell  with  a 
crash  loud  enough,  it  seemed  to  him,  to  wake  the  Seven 
Sleepers. 

Despite  the  pain  of  his  stubbed  foot,  Pennington  did 
not  hug  his  injured  member  with  the  affection  usually 
displayed  on  such  occasions  but  ground  his  teeth  and 
listened  intently  for  any  sign  from  the  burglars  that 
they  had  heard  him. 

A  momeni  of  suspense ;  then  he  assured  himself  that 
they  had  heard  nothing,  and,  securing  pistol  and 
poker,  started  for  the  library  door.  He  reached  it 
safely,  and,  opening  it  noiselessly,  looked  out  into  the 
hall.  A  narrow  streak  of  light  from  the  partly- 
opened  dining-room  door  showed  him  where  to  steer, 
and,  grasping  the  poker  firmly  in  his  right  hand  and 
the  pistol  in  his  left,  he  tiptoed  across  the  hall. 
The  rattling  of  silver  in  the  dining-room  contin- 
ued, and  almost  drowned  the  nearer  and  solemn  tick  of 
an  old  eight-day  clock,  whose  brass  and  iron  nerves 
the  doctor  envied. 

Creeping  cautiously  to  the  door,  he  looked  through 
the  crack.  The  light  was  turned  half  on  in  the  dining- 
room.  At  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  with  his  back 
turned  towards  him,  was  an  old  man,  who  seemed  to  be 
taking  silver  from  the  drawers  of  the  sideboard  and 
putting  it  into  a  basket  at  his  side. 

"The  old  villain!"  thought  Pennington.     "How 


268        THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

cool  he  is !  I  wonder  where  the  other  two  fellows  are. 
Somewhere  at  hand,  I  suppose." 

Suddenly  the  burglar  turned  half  around,  as  though 
he  were  about  to  leave  the  room.  Pennington  shrank 
back. 

"I  can't  shoot  the  fellow  in  cold  blood,"  he  said  to 
himself.  Just  then  his  hand  touched  the  knob  of  a 
door  which  he  knew  opened  into  a  large  closet.  An 
idea  struck  him.  He  opened  the  door  very  quietly,  and 
then,  picking  up  the  rug  from  the  hall  floor,  was  ready 
to  carry  out  his  plan. 

The  burglar  was  nearing  the  door.  ''Come  up  as 
soon  as  you  can, ' '  he  said,  and  as  a  muffled  voice  from 
somewhere  answered,  ' '  All  right, ' '  he  opened  the  door 
and  stepped  into  the  hall. 

With  a  bound  Pennington  threw  the  heavy  rug  over 
the  man's  head,  deftly  twisting  it  so  that  he  could 
make  no  sound  to  warn  his  comrades.  But  the  doctor 
had  not  thought  of  the  basket  of  silver  which  the  man 
carried,  and  it  fell  to  the  floor  with  a  crash.  There  was 
a  quick  movement  in  the  direction  from  which  the  an- 
swering voice  had  come,  and  a  scream  from  upstairs. 
Pennington  fairly  hurled  his  prisoner  into  the  closet 
and  locked  the  door ;  then  he  stood  a  moment  uncertain 
whether  to  run  upstairs  to  the  aid  of  Mrs.  Graham  and 
Clara  or  search  for  the  other  burglar.  Suddenly  he 
heard  a  step  behind  him.  Before  he  could  turn  he  re- 
ceived a  blow  on  the  side  of  his  head.  He  fell  to  the 
floor,  where  he  lay  half  stunned.  Then  his  hands  were 
tied  behind  him,  and  he  felt  himself  picked  up  by  his 
assailant  and  held  a  moment  uncertainly  in  mid  air. 

**Put  him  in  here,  Fred,"  said  a  voice,  and,  to  his 
horror,  Pennington  heard  the  key  turn  in  the  lock,  and 
the  next  instant  he  was  thrown  into  the  closet  with  as 
little  ceremony  as  he  had  himself  used  towards  the 
burglar.    Then  the  door  was  locked. 

A  sudden  cough  from  the  burglar  made  Penning- 
ton's hair  stand  on  end,  and  he  shivered  when  he  heard 
the  man,  sputtering  and  coughing,  feeling  audibly  for 


DR.  PENNINGTON'S  COUNTRY  PRACTICE.    269 

what  Pennington  knew  was  his  revolver.  He  was  as 
brave  as  most  men,  and  at  once  determined  not  to  lie 
still  at  the  mercy  of  a  desperate  ruffian.  Very  cautious- 
ly he  tried  to  pull  his  hands  out  of  the  bonds  that  held 
them.  To  his  joy,  he  found  that  the  hastily-tied  knots 
would  give  way  at  a  little  straining. 

Meanwhile,  upstairs,  Mrs.  Graham  and  Clara  had 
gone  to  bed  together  for  additional  safety.  Clara  did 
not  tell  her  mother,  but  to  herself  confessed  that  she 
had  every  confidence  in  Dr.  Pennington,  and  so  went 
calmly  to  sleep.  Mrs.  Graham  was  less  confident 
than  her  daughter,  and  her  sleep  was  light  and  broken. 
The  consequence  was  that  the  fall  of  the  silver  basket 
woke  her  up  instantly.    She  gave  a  scream. 

* '  Clara ! ' '  she  cried,  shaking  her  daughter.  * '  Clara, 
the  burglars  are  here ! ' ' 

"Where?"  demanded  Clara,  sitting  bolt  upright, 
and  looking  in  bewilderment  out  from  the  mist  of  her 
long  brown  hair. 

* '  Down  stairs, ' '  said  Mrs.  Graham,  in  a  hoarse  whis- 
per. *'Help  me,  Clara,  and  scream."  With  that  she 
set  the  example  by  uttering  a  shriek  that  rang  through 
the  house,  waking  the  servants  in  their  rooms.  Clara 
sprang  from  the  bed,  and,  scarcely  knowing  what  she 
did,  began  piling  all  the  movable  furniture  in  front  of 
the  door,  while  her  mother  uttered  scream  after  scream 
with  the  regularity  of  a  piece  of  clock-work. 

There  was  a  step  in  the  hall,  then  another. 

** There  are  two  of  them!"  gasped  Mrs.  Graham,  in 
an  interval  of  screaming.  The  door  was  opened  slight- 
ly. "Push  up  the  bedstead,  Clara!"  and  the  two  wo- 
men pushed  the  heavy  piece  of  furniture  against  the 
door.  The  movement  was  so  sudden  that  the  door 
closed  upon  the  intruder's  fingers.  There  was  a  howl 
of  pain. 

"Scream!"  commanded  Mrs.  Graham,  as  Clara 
caught  her  by  the  arm.    The  girl  did  not  at  once  obey. 

"Oh,  mother,"  she  cried,  "what  do  you  suppose 
they've  done  to  John— I  mean  Dr.  Pennington?" 


270  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

''Let  me  in,"  cried  a  voice  in  the  hall.  "Let  me 
in."  The  two  women  screamed  again.  The  door  was 
pushed  open  and  a  man's  head  and  shoulder  thrust  in. 
In  desperation,  Mrs.  Graham  picked  up  the  water- 
pitcher.  Eushing  towards  the  man,  she  threw  it  at 
him.  It  struck  the  wall  and  broke,  near  enough  to  him 
to  drench  him. 

"Hold  on,  I  say!"  he  cried.  "Mother,  what  are 
you  doing?  Are  you  hurt?  Have  those  scoundrels 
hurt  you?" 

"Phil!"  cried  Mrs.  Graham  and  Clara  at  once. 
*  *  Phil !  Why,  what  are  you  doing  here  ?  How  did  you 
come?"  And  they  rushed  upon  him,  dragging  him 
through  the  narrow  opening  and  embracing  him  rap- 
turously. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  asked  Mrs.  Graham 
again,  as  she  released  him.  He  could  not  answer  at 
once,  but  after  Clara  had  let  him  go,  he  answered, — 

"Well,  father  at  first  forgot  all  about  the  burglars. 
We  were  at  the  library,  working  away  like  beaver  law- 
yers, when  he  suddenly  thought  of  'em.  He  jumped 
up  and  said  we  must  come  right  home,  because  you'd 
be  scared  out  of  your  wits. ' '  Here  he  kissed  his  moth- 
er again.  "So  we  bundled  up  the  papers,  and,  as  we 
were  too  late  for  the  ten  o'clock  train,  we  came  up  on 
the  other  road,  and  walked  across.  We  brought  Fred 
with  us,  too." 

*  *  Fred  Austin  ? ' '  asked  Mrs.  Graham.  Phil  nodded, 
and  went  on : 

"Father  was  sure  you'd  be  awake,  but  you  didn't 
seem  to  be,  so  we  looked  around,  and  pretty  soon  got 
in  through  the  front  window,  which  was  open."  Mi's. 
Graham  looked  frightened.  ' '  Then  we  felt  sure  there 
was  something  to  pay,  especially  when  we  saw  the  sil- 
ver basket  and  the  silver  scattered  around  on  the  table 
and  sideboard,  and  the  safe  open,  so  father  picked  up 
the  silver,  while  Fred  and  I  ran  into  the  kitchen." 
Mrs.  Graham  had  gasped  when  she  heard  of  their  dis- 
covery, and  stood  listening  with  almost  tragic  intent- 
ness. 


DR.  PENNINGTON'S  COUNTRY  PRACTICE.     271 

"We  found  no  one  there,  but  we  heard  a  crash  in 
the  hall  and  ran  back.  Fred  came  through  the  door 
into  the  pantry,  while  I  came  by  the  dining-room.  First 
thing  I  knew  I  heard  somebody  fall  in  the  hall,  and 
then  Fred  called  me.  He  'd  found  a  big  fellow  stand- 
ing by  the  door,  evidently  waiting  for  me,  and  he'd  hit 
him  pretty  hard  on  the  head.  Then  we  tied  his  hands 
with  a  handkerchief  and  threw  him  into  the  closet. ' ' 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Graham,  looking  relieved,  while 
Clara  drew  a  long  breath,  "that  was  good.  Where  is 
your  father.    Bring  them  both  here. ' ' 

' '  Isn  't  father  here  ? ' '  asked  Phil.  ' '  Wliy,  he  came 
upstairs  first— has  that  scoundrel  touched  him,  I  won- 
der?" And  Phil  darted  out  of  the  room  and  down- 
stairs. 

' '  Then  there  was  some  one  in  the  house, ' '  said  Mrs. 
Graham,  "for  Phil  said  that  Fred  had  to  strike  some 
one." 

"Mamma,"  said  Clara,  tremulously,  seizing  her 
mother 's  arm,  ' '  Fred  hit  Dr.  Pennington ! ' '  And  she 
looked  at  her  mother  with  wide-open  eyes  of  alarm. 
Mrs.  Graham  went  into  the  hall,  her  daughter  follow- 
ing her, 

"Be  still!"  commanded  Mrs.  Graham,  opening  the 
door  into  the  servants'  hall.  "Girls,  I'm  ashamed  of 
you!  Bridget,  Eliza!  Be  still  at  once!"  Her  voice 
had  its  effect,  and  the  house  became  quiet  again. 

Meantime  the  two  prisoners  in  the  closet  had  not  been 
idle.  Pennington  at  first  lay  where  he  had  been  thrown, 
noiselessly  trying  to  slip  his  hands  through  his  bonds. 
The  burglar  had  evidently  rid  himself  of  the  rug,  and 
Pennington  could  hear  him  groping  his  way  about  the 
closet,  now  and  again  colliding  with  unknown  obsta- 
cles. He  was  nearing  the  prostrate  doctor,  who  re- 
doubled his  efforts  to  free  himself.  Suddenly  the  burg- 
lar's foot  struck  smartly  against  Pennington's  head. 
The  man  stopped  and  drew  back ;  then  he  pushed  his 
foot  forward  again  till  it  once  more  touched  the  doctor. 
Pennington,  who  had  not  quite  freed  himself  when  the 


272  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

burglar  first  collided  with  him,  jerked  his  hands  out  of 
their  fastenings,  and,  springing  to  his  feet,  aimed  a 
blow  in  the  direction  in  which  he  thought  the  burglar 
stood.  He  missed  his  aim  in  the  darkness  and  bruised 
his  knuckles  against  the  wall. 

"Whew!"  he  cried,  jumping  with  pain.  Just  then 
he  got  a  blow  from  the  burglar  on  his  shoulder.  He 
turned  on  him,  but  caught  his  foot  on  the  rug  and  fell 
at  full  length.  He  sprang  up  in  an  instant,  however, 
picking  up  the  rug  as  he  did  so,  and  stood  prepared  to 
defend  himself  as  long  as  possible. 

"Have  you  found  your  father?"  asked  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham, leaning  over  the  baluster  and  looking  into  the 
darkness  of  the  lower  hall. 

"Not  yet,  Mrs.  Graham,"  answered  a  voice. 

"Why  don't  you  light  the  gas,  Fred?"  asked  Mrs. 
Graham,  impatiently.  There  was  a  scratching  of  a 
match,  and  in  an  instant  the  hall  was  lighted.  Just 
then  Phil  Graham  came  from  the  dining-room. 

"I  can't  find  father,"  he  said  anxiously. 

Clara  came  timidly  half-way  down  the  stairs. 

"Fred,"  she  asked,  "what  sort— who  was  it  you 
struck?" 

"A  tall  man,  standing  here.  He  was  waiting  for 
us  to  come  out  of  the  dining-room ;  but  I  came  up  be- 
hind and  hit  him— so,"  answered  Fred  Austin,  with 
some  pride. 

"Lucky  he  did,  too,"  said  Phil.  "The  fellow  had 
this,"  he  added,  holding  up  a  pistol.  Then,  in  a  tone 
of  astonishment,  he  cried,  "Hello!  it's  father's  old 
horse-pistol ! ' ' 

Clara  flew  down  the  stairs  to  her  brother,  her  long 
hair  streaming  behind  her,  "It  wasn't  a  burglar!" 
she  cried.  * '  It  wasn  't  a  burglar !  Why  did  you  strike 
him?"  turning  fiercely  upon  Fred  Austin,  and  then 
bursting  into  tears  of  terror. 

Mrs.  Graham  followed  her  down.  "He  wasn't  a 
burglar,"  she  explained  to  the  perplexed  young  men. 
"It  was  Dr.  Pennington.    He  came  down  here  to  pro- 


DR.  PENNINGTON'S  COUNTRY  PRACTICE.     273 

tect  us  while  you  were  away.  He  must  have  heard  you 
and  taken  you  for  burglars,  and  you  took  him  for  one, 
and-" 

"Pennington!"  echoed  Phil,  while  Fred  looked  at 
Clara,  with  admiration  and  contrition,  the  former  real, 
the  latter  half  feigned.  ' '  I  put  Pennington,  if  it  was 
he,  into  the  closet,"  he  added,  stepping  towards  the 
place.    Clara  was  before  him,  however. 

The  sound  of  voices  in  the  hall  had  already  attract- 
ed the  attention  of  the  two  prisoners.  The  burglar 
groaned  as  he  heard  them,  and  his  groan  was  fatal  to 
him,  for  it  indicated  that  he  was  in  the  middle  of  the 
closet.  Instantly  the  doctor  turned  and  threw  the  rug 
in  the  direction  of  the  sound.  His  aim  was  good,  and 
in  a  moment  he  had  the  burglar's  head  again  envel- 
oped. His  hands  were  free,  however,  and  he  grappled 
with  Pennington  so  vigorously  that  he  had  much  ado 
to  defend  himself.  Suddenly  he  gave  the  burglar  a 
strong  shove  from  him.  At  that  moment  the  door  was 
flung  open. 

' '  John, ' '  cried  Clara.  The  burglar  fell  through  the 
door  into  the  hall.  For  an  instant  there  was  silence. 
Then  the  burglar  began  to  kick  violently  and  to  shout. 

"It's  father!"  cried  Phil  Graham,  as  he  made  a 
dive  for  the  half-smothered  man  and  set  him  on  his 
feet.  Mr.  Graham  looked  around  wildly  for  an  instant 
as  he  got  rid  of  the  rug. 

* '  There 's  a  burglar  in  there ! "  he  cried.  * '  Shut  the 
door.  Quick,  shut  the  door!"  And  he  threw  himself 
against  it,  refusing  to  move  until  Fred  Austin  had 
locked  it.  "Whew!"  he  gasped.  "The  scoundrel! 
Have  you  locked  it  Fred?— Tried  to  garrote  me— 
whew ! ' '  And  he  wiped  his  face  and  looked  around  on 
his  astonished  family. 

"Why,  how  did  you  get  in  there,  father?"  asked 
Phil,  while  Mrs.  Graham  led  her  husband  to  a  chair. 
Clara  stood  still  near  the  door. 

' '  I  was  going  up  stairs  with  the  silver  basket,  which 
the  burglar  had  left  on  the  sideboard—" 

2—18 


274  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

"No,"  interrupted  his  wife,  penitently:  "I  told 
Eliza  I  would  put  the  silver  in  the  safe  myself,  and  I 
was  doing  it  when  Dr.  Pennington  came.  I  ran  out  to 
meet  him,  and  forgot  all  about  the  silver.  I  don't  be- 
lieve there  was  any  burglar  at  all. ' ' 

"Yes,  there  was,"  said  Mr.  Graham,  sturdily.  "As 
I  was  coming  out  of  the  dining-room,  a  fellow  threw 
this  rug  over  me,  and  then  threw  me,  rug  and  all,  into 
the  closet.  Presently  he  came  in  after  me,  I  suppose  to 
remove  the  only  witness  against  him.  He  was  choking 
me  when  you  opened  the  door,  and  I  broke  away  from 
him."    And  Mr.  Graham  pointed  to  the  closet  door. 

"Why,  that's  where  we  put  Pennington,"  cried 
Austin  and  Phil  Graham.  Clara  darted  to  the  door 
and  opened  it  wide. 

"John!"  she  cried  again.  "Come  out,  come  out." 
And,  in  obedience  to  her  call,  John  Pennington  came 
out. 

"Where's  that  burglar?"  he  asked. 

"There  were  three  of  them,"  answered  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham, promptly.  "We  have  got  them  all."  Penning- 
ton looked  around  bewildered.  He  recognized  Phil 
Graham,  and  then  saw  Mr.  Graham  sitting  in  the  hall 
chair,  the  rug  at  his  feet.    His  face  fell. 

"This  was  the  burglar  you  captured,"  said  Mrs. 
Graham ;  and  Mr.  Graham  nodded. 

"Who  hit  me,  then?"  demanded  Pennington,  rub- 
bing his  head.  Fred  Austin  seemed  bashful  about  an- 
swering, and  Phil  spoke  up : 

"We  took  you  for  a  burglar  and  captured  you,  just 
as  you  had  captured  father." 

* '  Then  there  were  no  burglars  ? ' '  asked  Pennington, 
doubtfully. 

"No,  there  were  no  burglars,"  answered  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham. 

"Well,"  said  Pennington,  as  he  rubbed  his  head 
again,  "I  suppose  it's  all  right,  but  it's  rather  hard  on 
a  well-meaning  fellow—"  And  he  smiled  rather 
weakly. 


DR.  PENNINGTON'S  COUNTRY  PRACTICE.    275 

*'It's  all  right,"  said  Clara,  unconsciously  laying 
her  hand  on  his  arm. ' ' 

''My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Graham  to  his  wife  some  time 
later,  as  they  were  in  their  room  together,  "my  dear, 
didn't  Clara  call  the  doctor  John?" 

''I  didn't  think  you  noticed  it,"  answered  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham. 

"I  did,  though,"  said  Mr.  Graham,  "It  seems  to 
me,  though  there  were  no  burglars  to  take  our  silver, 
that  Pennington  has  taken  our  little  woman's  heart." 

' '  Fair  exchange  is  no  robbery, ' '  remarked  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham; and  her  husband  looked  at  her,  and  nodded  sev- 
eral times  as  though  something  pleased  him. 

Butler  Munroe. 


XIX 

THE  DOCTOR :  AN  OLD  VIRGINIA 
FOX  HUNTER. 


^^  OW  the  doctor  was  a  Southerner  of  the  old 
^3g  school.  Nor  was  he  merely  a  North  Caro- 
^^1  linan,  a  Tennesseean,  a  Kentuckian  or  a 
Georgian— not  any,  thank  you!  No;  our  friend 
was  a  Virginian— a  real,  "old-fashioned,  blue- 
blooded,  whole-souled,  open-handed  Virginian."  And 
this  he  was  by  virtue  of  eight  or  nine  generations 
of  forebears  who  had  fought,  physicked,  speechified, 
fox-hunted,  raised  negroes  and  tobacco,  in  that  immor- 
tal commonwealth.  No  day  passed  but  the  doctor,  in 
his  simple  fashion,  unconsciously  thanked  God  that  he 
was  a  Virginian.  For  did  not  virtue,  valor,  honor, 
gallantry,  select  the  Old  Dominion  in  the  days  of  the 
Stuarts  as  their  special  depot,  from  whence,  in  modi- 
fied streams,  these  qualities  might  be  diffused  over  the 
less  fortunate  portions  of  the  Western  world  ?  To  the 
unsophisticated  Englishman,  to  the  ignorant  French- 
man or  German,  an  American  is  an  American.  If  he  is 
not  rampantly  modern,  sensationally  progressive,  and 
furiously  material,  he  is  nothing  at  all.  But  the  doctor' 
would  scarcely  ever  speak  or  think  of  himself  as  an 
American,  except  in  the  same  sense  as  an  Englishman 
would  call  himself  a  European.  The  doctor  was  every 
moment  of  the  day,  and  every  day  in  the  year,  a  Vir- 
ginian above  everything;  and  as  I  have  already  said, 
he  felt  thereby  that  a  responsibility  and  a  glory  above 
that  of  other  mortals  had  been  conferred  upon  him  by 
the  accident  of  his  birth.  I  may  add,  moreover, 
that  he  was  unquestionably  non-progressive,  that  he 
was  decidedly  not  modern,  while  to  this  day  he  is  so 

(276) 


AN  OLD  VIRGINIA  FOX  HUNTER.  277 

reactionary  that  the  sound  of  a  railway  irritates  him ; 
and  finally,  that  he  was,  and  I  feel  sure  still  is,  emi- 
nently picturesque. 

The  doctor  was  about  sixty-five  at  the  time  of  which 
I  write  (not  so  very  many  years  ago).  He  had  never 
set  foot  outside  Virginia,  and  never  wanted  to.  That 
a  country,  however,  or  climate,  or  people,  or  scenery, 
existed  that  could  be  mentioned  in  the  same  breath 
with  the  old  Cavalier  colony,  never  for  one  moment 
was  accounted  within  the  bounds  of  possibility  by  that 
good  and  simple  soul. 

And  yet,  paradoxical  as  it  may  seem,  the  doctor  was 
proud  of  his  descent  from  pure  English  stock.  "None 
of  Scotch  or  Irish,  or  Scotch-Irish  for  me.  No,  I  thank 
you,  sir."  "My  folks,"  he  was  fond  of  relating,  "were 
real  English  stock,  who  came  over  way  back  in  early 
colonial  days,  and  settled  on  the  York  River.  They 
were  kin  to  the  nobility."  Whatever  may  have  been 
the  accuracy  of  this  last  claim,  the  doctor's  patronymic 
in  Virginia  genealogy  was  above  reproach,  and  would 
have  secured  him  an  entree  (had  he  owned  a  dress  coat, 
and  had  he  felt  a  hankering  after  Eastern  cities)  into 
those  small  exclusive  coteries  in  transatlantic  society 
that  still  recognize  birth  as  superior  to  wealth  and 
even  intellect.  I  should  not  like  it  to  be  supposed  that 
my  dear  doctor,  of  whom  I  am  excessively  fond,  was 
given  to  blustering  about  either  his  State  or  his  de- 
scent. Your  fire-eating,  blowing,  swaggering  Southern- 
er belongs  either  to  a  lower  social  grade,  to  the  more 
frontier  States  of  the  South,  or,  to  a  greater  degree 
perhaps  than  either,  to  the  fertile  imagination  of  Yan- 
kee editors  and  dime  novelists.  The  doctor  was  a  Vir- 
ginian. His  thoughts  and  his  habits,  which  were  pe- 
culiar and  original,  were  simply  those  of  Virginians 
of  his  class  and  generation  somewhat  strongly  empha- 
sized. He  was  just  and  unassuming,  kindly  and  home- 
ly. There  was  about  him  a  delightful,  old-fashioned,  if 
somewhat  ponderous  suavity  of  manner,  that  the  rest 
of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  have  long,  long  outgrown. 


278  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

Even  to  hear  a  married  female  who  was  not  black  ad- 
dressed as  otherwise  than  "Madam"  positively  pained 
him.  As  for  the  children,  the  doctor  had  a  separate 
greeting  for  every  one  of  them,  let  his  host's  quiver 
be  ever  so  fall.  Ay,  and  generally  something  more 
than  that;  for  the  doctor's  capacious  pockets  were 
known  by  the  little  ones  to  be  almost  as  ines^haustible 
in  the  way  of  chincapins,  hickory-nuts  and  candy,  as 
his  well-worn  saddle-bags  were  of  less  inviting  condi- 
ments. 

The  doctor's  belief  in  his  country  (and  by  his  coun- 
try of  course  I  mean  Virginia)  was  the  religion  in 
which  he  was  born.  He  would  never  have  dreamt  of 
intruding  it  on  you.  International  comparisons  he 
could  not  make,  for  he  had  never  been  out  of  the  State. 
I  feel  perfectly  sure,  however,  if  the  doctor  had  trav- 
elled over  every  corner  of  the  earth,  that  his  faith  was 
of  that  fundamental  description  which  was  proof 
against  mere  sights  and  sounds.  He  would  have  re- 
turned to  the  shade  of  his  ancestral  porch,  temporarily 
staggered,  perhaps,  but  still  unconvinced  that  any 
land  or  any  people  could  compare  with  old  Virginia. 

The  average  American  in  London  is  a  spectacle 
which  has  in  it  nothing  inharmonious ;  on  the  contrary, 
in  these  days  it  is  sometimes  hard  to  distinguish  him 
from  the  native.  To  picture  the  doctor  in  London, 
however,  requires  an  effort  of  imagination  from  which 
the  intellect  shrinks.  Of  one  thing  I  am  sure,  and 
that  is,  he  would  be  very  miserable.  He  would  call  iu 
vain  for  glasses  of  cold  water  like  that  from  the  limpid 
spring  under  the  poplar  tree  at  home,  of  which  the 
doctor  consumes  about  a  horse-troughful  a  day.  He 
would  hang  over  the  apple-stalls,  and  groan  over  the 
deficiencies  of  a  country  that  could  do  no  better  than 
that.  He  would  get  up  two  hours  before  the  servants, 
and  prowl  about  disconsolate  and  hungry  till  break- 
fast. ^Tiat  an  apology,  too,  for  a  breakfast  it  would 
be  without  an  "Old  Virginia  hot-beat  biscuit!"  In  his 
despair  of  getting  a  "julep"  he  might  take  a  whiskey 


AN  OLD  VIRGINIA  FOX  HUNTER.  279 

punch  before  Ms  early  dinner.    But  here,  again,  how- 
could  the  emblazoned  wine-card,   with   its,    for  him, 
meaningless  contents,  supply  the  want  of  that  big 
pitcher  of  foaming  buttermilk  for  which  his  simple 
palate  craves?    The  pomp  and  wealth,  the  glitter  and 
glare  of  a  great  capital,  would  be  simply  distasteful  to 
our  patriarch.    In  his  own  land  he  and  his  have  been 
for  all  time  aristocrats— after  their  own  fashion,  it  is 
true,  but  still  aristocrats.    They  have  been  strongly  in- 
clined to  regard  themselves  as  the  salt  of  the  earth— 
and  perhaps  they  are;  a  good  sturdy  British  foible 
this,  intensified  by  isolation  and  the  mutual  admira- 
tion atmosphere  which  isolation  creates.    At  any  rate, 
gold  lace  and  liveries  and  coronets  are  not  indispensa- 
ble adjuncts  of  honor  and  breeding.    The  doctor,  how- 
ever—if we  can  imagine  him  gazing  on  the  stream  of 
carriages  rolling  past  Hyde  Park  corner  on  a  summer 
evening— would  be  sensible,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  to  a  feeling  somewhat  akin  to  insignificance  creep- 
ing over  him.    He  would  hate  and  despise  himself  for 
it,  but  still  it  would  make  him  uncomfortable,  and  he 
Avould  want  to  get  away  home.    A  depressing  suspicion 
would  come  over  our  good  friend  that  the  haughty 
squires  and  dames  knew  no  more  of  Virginia's  history, 
or     of     Pages     and     Randolphs,     and     Pendletons 
and     Byrds,     than     they     knew     of     the     obscure 
Elijahs    and    Hirams    and    Aarons    that    tilled    the 
stony     fields     of     New     England.     I     fear,     more- 
over, that  the  suspicion  would  be  too  well  founded. 
As    a    Cumberland    squire    in    the    eighteenth  cen- 
tury might  have  been  disillusioned  by  a  visit  to  the 
the  capital,  so  to  a  much  greater  degree  would  our  good 
Virginian  friend  have  in  all  probability  suffered  by  a 
similar  transportation.    Once  home  again,  however,  I 
can  safely  affirm  of  the  doctor,  that  these  uncomfort- 
able sensations  would  have  vanished  in  no  time.    Once 
more  in  his  cane-bottomed  rocking-chair  on  the  shady 
porch ;  once  more  within  sight  of  the  blue  mountains, 
the  red  fallows,  and  the  yellow  pine-sprinkled  sedge- 


280  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

fields  of  Ms  native  land,  he  would  quickly  recover  from 
the  temporary  shocks  that  had  irritated  him.  The  sub- 
lime faith  in  "the  grand  old  Commonwealth"  would 
return,  and  he  would  thank  God  more  fervently  than 
ever  he  was  a  son  of  Virginia ;  not  because  of  her  pres- 
ent or  her  future— for  he  considered  the  Virginia  he 
belonged  to  died  with  slavery— but  on  account  of  her 
people  and  her  past.  The  doctor,  happily,  had  been 
spared  all  these  trials  and  his  faith  remained  pure  and 
unimpaired.  The  only  capital  he  had  ever  visited  was 
the  charming  little  city  of  Richmond,  where  every 
third  man  or  woman  he  met  was  his  cousin  ;  where  most 
of  society  call  one  another  by  their  Christian  names, 
dine  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  and  sit  out  on  chairs  in 
the  street  after  supper.  Richmond  is  delightful,  and 
so  are  its  people ;  but  its  atmosphere  would  tend  to  con- 
firm, not  to  shake,  the  doctor's  homely  faith. 

Perhaps  the  Southern  States  was  the  only  part  of 
the  -world  where  the  practice  of  medicine  has  ever  been 
looked  upon  as  an  honorable  adjunct  to  the  possession 
of  considerable  landed  estates  and  an  aristocratic 
name.  As  in  England  there  were  squire-parsons,  so  in 
Virginia  there  were  squire-doctors,  men  of  considera- 
ble property  (as  things  go  there)  both  in  land  and 
slaves,  regularly  practising  in  their  own  neighbor- 
hood. The  slaves  that  constituted  the  bulk  of  their 
wealth  have  gone,  but  the  lands  and  the  practice  re- 
main—for those  who  still  survive  and  are  able  to  sit 
upon  a  horse. 

The  doctor  is  one  of  these  survivals— and  may  he 
long  flourish  I  He  had  only  a  moderate  property— two 
farms— of  which  we  shall  speak  anon.  But  then  he 
was  a  Patton ;  and  as  everybody  south  of  the  Potomac 
knows,  the  Pattons  are  one  of  the  first  families  in  the 
State— none  of  your  modern  and  self-dubbed  F.  F. 
V.  's  are  they,  but  real  old  colonial  people,  whose  names 
are  written  on  almost  every  page  of  their  country's  his- 
tory. Besides  this,  Judge  Patton,  the  doctor's  father, 
was  one  of  the  greatest  jurists  south  of  Washington-— 


'AN  OLD  VIRGINIA  FOX  HUNTER.  281 

''in  the  world,"  Yirginians  said;  but  as  a  compromise 
we  will  admit  he  was  one  of  the  first  in  America,  and 
quite  distinguished  enough  to  reflect  a  social  halo  over 
his  immediate  descendants,  supposing  even  they  had 
not  been  Pattons. 

The  original  Patton  mansion  was  burnt  down  in 
1840.  Nothing  was  left  but  the  office  in  the  yard, 
where  in  those  days  our  friend  the  doctor  pursued  his 
youthful  medical  investigations  and  entertained  his 
bachelor  friends.  The  judge  was  a  busy  man,  and 
much  absent.  He  was  always  ' '  laying  out  to  build  him 
a  new  house;"  but  death  ''laid  him  out"  while  the 
scheme  was  still  in  embryo.  The  doctor,  who,  as  only  son, 
became  proprietor,  had  his  hands  too  full,  what  with 
negroes,  and  farming,  and  physicking,  and  fox-hunt- 
ing, to  carry  it  out  till  the  war  was  upon  him,  and  with 
its  results  put  an  end,  as  he  thought  at  the  time,  to 
everything  which  makes  life  sweet. 

It  must  not,  however,  be  supposed  that  the  doctor 
and  his  father  had  gone  houseless  or  camped  out  since 
1840.  Not  at  all.  From  the  old  brick  office,  whose  iso- 
lation had  saved  it  from  that  memorable  conflagration, 
there  had  grown— I  use  the  word  advisedly,  as  applica- 
ble to  Virginia  architecture — there  had  grown  a  ramb- 
ling structure,  whose  design,  rather  than  whose  actual 
weight  of  years,  gave  it  an  appearance  venerable 
enough  to  command  the  respect  and  admiration  of 
summer  tourists  from  New  York  and  Philadelphia.  It 
was  not  often  such  apparitions  passed  that  way,  and 
when  they  did,  it  was  generally  in  pursuit  of  filthy 
lucre  suppositiously  concealed  in  the  fields  or  the  for- 
ests. Nor  are  mining  prospectors  as  a  rule  sentimental, 
but  sometimes  they  are  in  America.  When  such  rarae 
aves  came  by  the  doctor's  front  gate,  they  would  al- 
most always  pull  up  and  gaze  through  it  with  that  ad- 
miration and  respect  that  Northerners  are  inclined  to 
pay  to  anything  in  their  own  country  that  recalls  the 
past. 

' '  Oh,  isn't  that  too  quaint  for  anything ! "  the  ladies 


282  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

who  sometimes  accompanied  them  never  failed  to  re- 
mark. ' '  That 's  a  real  old  ramshackle  Virginia  house, 
by  thunder !  and  a  pretty  heavy  old  fossil  inside  it,  you 
bet ! ' '  said  the  more  observant  of  the  gentlemen. 

The  doctor  would  have  gloried  in  such  criticism  had 
he  heard  it.  He  hated  Yankees ;  he  hated  your  new- 
fangled houses;  he  hated  railroads;  he  hated  towns; 
he  hated  breech-loading  guns ;  sights  and  sounds  and 
things  that  he  was  not  familiar  with  at  five-and-twenty 
he  would  have  none  of  when  he  was  between  sixty  and 
seventy. 

The  doctor's  house  was  unconventional,  to  be  sure, 
while  weather  and  neglect  of  paint  or  whitewash  had 
given  it  an  air  of  antiquity  to  which  it  had  no  real 
claim.  It  lay  a  hundred  yards  back  from  the  road,  and 
appeared  to  consist  of  four  or  five  small  houses  of  vary- 
ing dimensions,  and  occupying  relationships  toward 
one  another  of  a  most  uncertain  kind.  Two  of  these 
leaned  heavily  together,  like  convivial  old  gentlemen 
' '  seeing  one  another  home. ' '  The  rest  lay  at  respectful 
distances  from  each  other,  connected  only  by  open  ve- 
randahs, through  which  the  summer  breeze  blew  fresh- 
ly, and  lovingly  fanned  the  annuals  that  spread  and 
twined  themselves  along  the  eaves.  Almost  every  style 
of  Virginia  rural  architecture  found  places  in  this 
homely  conglomeration  of  edifices,  which  even  "old 
man  Jake, ' '  the  negro,  who  has  for  twenty  years  looked 
after  the  doctor's  horses  and  stolen  his  corn,  described 
as  "mighty  shacklin',  and  lookin'  like  as  if  they'd  bin 
throwed  6.ovm.  all  in  a  muss." 

It  was,  however,  a  real  old  characteristic  Virginia 
house  of  its  kind.  There  were  squared  chestnut  logs, 
black  with  rain  and  sun,  against  which  the  Venetian 
shutters  of  the  windows  banged  and  thumped  in  gusty 
spring  days  as  against  walls  of  adamant.  These  same 
logs  were  got  out  of  the  woods  and  squared,  the  doc- 
tor would  tell  you,  in  days  ' '  when  men  had  plenty  of 
time  and  plenty  of  force  (i.  e.,  slaves)  to  do  thase 
things  properly."     Then  there  were  walls  of  pine 


AN  OLD  VIRGINIA  FOX  HUNTER.  283 

weather-boarding,  erected  at  a  period  when,  the  same 
authority  would  inform  you,  "people  began  to  saw  and 
season  their  lumber  five  or  ten  years  before  they  start- 
ed to  build."     There  were  roofs  of  wooden  shingles 
slanting  and  sloping  in  every  direction— black,  rotting, 
and  moss-grown  here,  white  and  garish  there,  where 
penetrating  rains  had  forced  the  slow  and  reluctant 
hand  of  repair.    Dormer-windows  glared  out  at  you, 
patched  as  to  their  shattered  panes  with  local  news- 
papers of  remote  date,  and  speaking  of  stuffy  attics  be- 
hind, where  hornets,  yellow- jackets  and  '^  mud-daub- 
ers" careered  about  in  summer-time  over  the  apple- 
strewn  floors.     Then  there  was  the  old  brick  office- 
relic  of  a  distant  past ;  of  a  period  when  the  Virginia 
planters,  though  surrounded  by  the  finest  clay,  were  so 
absorbed  in  tobacco  that  they  sent  to  England  for  their 
bricks.    It  is  probable,  however,  that  these  particular 
bricks  were  produced  upon  the  spot.  At  any  rate,  their 
comparative  antiquity  and  presumably  mellow  tone 
have  been  ruthlessly  effaced,  for  this  is  the  only  part 
of  the  doctor's  mansion  that  he  has  selected  for  a  coat 
of  whitewash.     It  is  used  for  professional  purposes, 
and  is  known  by  the  doctor's  patients  as  the  "suj- 
jery. ' '    I  know  it  is  hopeless  to  try,  by  a  bald  descrip- 
tion of  timber  and  bricks  and  mortar,  to  give  any  idea 
of  how  the  doctor's  rambling  homestead  appealed  to 
the  sense  of  the  picturesque,  and  to  the  affections  of 
those  of  us  who  were  familiar  with  it  and  with  its  in- 
mate.   No  doubt,  however,  the  latter  had  something  to 
do  with  this.    Nor  should  the  surroundings  be  forgot- 
ten.   The  stately  oaks  that  towered   high  above   the 
quaint  low  buildings,  and  covered  with  leaves  and 
dvhris  the  greater  portion  of  that  domestic  enclosure 
which  in  those  parts  was  known  as  the  yard.     The 
straggling,  branching  acacias  that  grew  close  to  the 
house,  and  spread  their  tall  arms  above  the  roof,  litter- 
ing it  in  autumn  with  showers  of  small,  curly  leaves, 
and  choking  the  wooden  gutters  (for  the  doctor  consid- 
ered tin  piping  as  a  modern  heresy)  with  fragmentary 


284  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

twigs.  The  fresh,  green  turf  that  had  matted  and 
spread  for  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  around  this 
house  and  the  more  stately  one  that  preceded  it.  The 
aged  box-trees  that  had  once,  no  doubt,  in  prim  Dutch 
rows  lined  some  well-tended  gravel  path,  but  now 
cropped  up  here  and  there  upon  the  turf,  like  beings 
that  had  outlived  their  time  and  generation.  The  clus- 
tering honeysuckles,  bending  their  old  and  rickety 
frames  to  the  ground.  The  silver  aspens  before  the 
door,  whose  light  leaves  shivered  above  your  head  in 
the  most  breathless  August  days.  The  slender  mimosa, 
through  whose  beautiful  and  fragile  greenery  the  first 
humming-birds  of  early  June  shyly  fluttered ;  and  the 
long  row  of  straw  hives  against  the  rickety  fence, 
where  hereditary  swarms  of  bees— let  well  alone- 
made  more  honey  than  the  doctor  and  all  his  neighbors 
could  consume. 

Yes !  These  objects  are,  and  all  and  many  more  are, 
twined  around  my  heart,  but  the  doctor's  front  gate 
occupies  no  such  position  at  all.  It  was  all  very  well 
for  the  people  who  stopped  in  the  road  and  looked 
through  its  bars  at  the  fine  old  oaks,  the  green  lawn 
beyond,  and  the  quaint,  straggling  structure,  and  then 
drove  on  their  way.  For  those,  however,  whose  duty 
or  pleasure  compelled  them  to  penetrate  that  barrier, 
it  was  entirely  another  matter.  It  was  a  home-made 
gate— a  real  "old  Virginia"  gate— put  up  at  the  close 
of  the  war  as  a  protest,  it  would  almost  seem,  against 
Yankee  notions  of  hurry.  To  look  at  the  tremendous 
portal,  5«ou  would  have  supposed  that  the  doctor  was 
the  most  defiant  recluse,  instead  of  the  most  hospitable 
of  men.  It  was,  however,  a  typical  Virginia  gate 
strongly  emphasized,  just  as  the  doctor  was  a  typical 
Virginia  gentleman  strongly  emphasized.  I  couldn't 
speak  accurately  as  to  its  dimensions,  but  I  have  often 
had  to  jump  for  life  as  it  fell,  and  from  the  way  in 
which  it  hit  the  ground,  I  should  say  that  it  must  have 
w^eighed  nearly  a  thousand  pounds.  Its  weight  would 
have  been  of  no  importance  whatever  to  anyone  but 


"AN  OLD  VIRGINIA  FOX  HUNTER.  285 

the  doctor  and  the  posts  which  supported  it,  had  it 
been  properly  hung  with  two  hinges  and  a  latch.  No 
doubt  it  had  commenced  life  with  these  advantages; 
but  during  all  the  years  I  struggled  with  it,  there  wasf 
no  latch,  and  only  a  bottom  hook-hinge.  It  was  kept  in 
its  place  by  two  ponderous  fence  rails  being  leaned  up 
against  it.  The  most  elementary  mathematician  will  at 
once  arrive  at  the  result  which  ensued  on  the  removal 
of  these  rails  (a  herculean  task  in  itself)  and  the 
opening  of  the  gate,  unless  extraordinary  skill  was  ex- 
ercised. It  was  really  a  performance  beyond  a  single 
man ;  so  most  visitors,  unless  they  were  ' '  riding  for  the 
doctor"— in  the  most  serious  business  sense— holloaed 
for  assistance,  or  rode  about  till  some  of  the  hands 
came  up  to  the  rescue.  It  must  not  be  supposed  that 
the  doctor's  establishment,  though  strongly  typical  in 
a  sense,  resembled  to  any  extent  the  real  old  Virginia 
mansion.  The  Pattons,  it  will  be  remembered,  had 
been  burnt  out,  and  the  present  pile  had  been  original- 
ly intended  only  as  a  makeshift;  but  it  was  such  a 
makeshift  as  would  perhaps  be  seen  nowhere  out  of 
Virginia.  Of  the  more  substantial  family  mansions 
there  were  plenty  crowning  the  hills  in  the  doctor's 
neighborhood.  Square  blocks  of  brick,  some  many- 
windowed  and  green-shuttered,  with  huge  Grecian  por- 
ticoes supported  by  rows  of  white  fluted  pillars  stretch- 
ing along  their  face.  Great  big  wooden  barns,  others 
with  acres  of  roof  and  rows  of  dormer-windows,  and 
crazy,  crumbling  porches,  and  stacks  of  red  brick  chim- 
neys clambering  up  outside  the  white  walls  at  the  gable 
ends,  or  anywhere  else  where  they  came  handy  for  that 
matter.  There  were  plenty  of  these  within  range  of 
the  doctor's  house  and  the  limits  of  his  practice,  and 
to  the  proprietor  of  every  one  the  doctor  was  related. 
The  stages  of  this  relationship  varied  from  the  unques- 
tioned affinity  of  cousins  and  nephews,  to  that  which 
is  described  in  Virginia  by  the  comprehensive  and  far- 
reaching  appellative  of  "kin."  To  be  kin  of  the  Pat- 
tons,  moreover,  was  in  itself  a  desirable  thing  in  Vir- 


286  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

ginian  eyes.  Though  the  doctor  lived  in  such  an  un- 
pretentious residence,  and  worked  day  in  and  day  out 
as  a  country  practitioner,  there  were  people  in  the 
neighborhood  holding  their  heads  pretty  high,  who 
were  always  pleased  to  remember  that  their  father's 
first  cousin  had  married  the  doctor's  mother's  brother. 

With  all  the  doctor's  quaint  ideas  and  strong  prej- 
udices, I  have  said  that  he  was  a  thorough  gentleman. 
He  was  of  the  kind  meant  for  use,  and  not  for  show. 
Good  Heavens!  "VVliat  would  your  dashing  British 
y^sculapius,  in  his  brougham  or  well-appointed  dog- 
cart, have  said  to  my  old  friend's  appearance  when 
setting  out  for  a  long  ^vinter  day's  work?  I  can  see 
him  now,  riding  in  at  the  gate  on  some  wild  January 
day,  bringing  hope  in  his  kindly  face,  and  good  con- 
servative, time-honored  drugs  in  his  well-worn  saddle- 
bags. A  woollen  scarf  is  drawn  round  his  head,  and 
on  the  top  of  it  is  crammed  an  ancient  wide-awake.  A 
long  black  cloak,  fastened  round  his  throat  with  a 
clasp,  and  lined  with  red  flannel,  falls  over  the  saddle 
behind.  His  legs,  good  soul,  are  thickly  encased  in 
coils  of  wheat  straw,  wound  tightly  round  them  from 
his  ankles  upwards.  In  his  hand,  by  way  of  a  whip,  he 
carries  a  bushy  switch  plucked  from  the  nearest  tree, 
and  upon  one  heel  a  rusty  spur  that  did  duty  at  Bull's 
Run. 

Now  do  not  suppose  that  the  doctor  on  such  occa- 
sions was  regarded  as  a  scarecrow,  or  that  his  neigh- 
bors looked  upon  liim  as  eccentric  or  even  careless  of 
attire;  on  the  contrary,  this  was  a  good  old  Virginia 
costume.  The  doctor's  appearance  as  above  described 
was  not  the  desperate  expedient  of  a  frontier  and  tran- 
sitory condition-:- not  at  all.  It  was  a  sui;vival  of  two 
hundred  years  of  a  peculiar  civilization ;  a  civilization 
that  had  been  wont  to  look  inside  the  plantation  fence 
for  almost  every  necessary ;  a  patriarchal  dispensation 
whose  simplicity  was  to  a  great  extent  the  outcome  of 
exclusiveness ;  a  social  organization  wherein  each 
man's  place  was  so  absolutely  fixed,  that  personal  ap- 


AN  OLD  VIRGINIA  FOX  HUNTER.  287 

parel  was  a  matter  of  almost  no  moment,  and  personal 
display,  such  as  engages  the  well-to-do  of  other  coun- 
tries in  mischievous  rivalry,  was  hardly  known. 

The  general  shabbiness  of  Virginia  was  not  the  tem- 
porary shabbiness  of  a  pioneering  generation— that 
condition  everybody  can  understand— but  the  pictur- 
esque and  almost  defiant  tatterdemalionism  of  quite  an 
old  and  thoroughly  self-satisfied  community,  unstimu- 
lated by  contact  with  the  outer  world.  It  was  a  mel- 
low, time-honored  kind  of  shabbiness  of  which  Virgin- 
ians are  almost  proud,  regarding  it  as  a  sort  of  mute 
protest,  though  an  extreme  one,  against  those  modern 
innovations  which  their  souls  abhorred.  The  doctor 
had  been  a  widower  since  the  first  year  of  the  war.  In 
accordance  with  local  custom,  he  had  buried  his  wife 
in  the  orchard.  A  simple  marble  shaft  in  that  homely 
quarter  spoke  of  her  virtues  and  her  worth  to  the  colts 
and  calves  that  bit  the  sweet  May  grass  around  her 
tomb,  and  to  the  inquiring  swine  that  crunched  the  rot- 
ting apples  as  they  fell  in  autumn  from  the  untended 
trees.  Neither  had  the  doctor  been  blessed  with  sons 
or  daughters.  Who  would  he  "  'ar  (heir  as  a  verb) 
his  place  to"  was  a  eommon  subject  of  discussion 
among  the  negroes  on  the  property.  The  doctor's  pro- 
fession, no  doubt,  was  his  first  care ;  but  his  heart  was 
with  his  farms  and  his  fox-hounds.  The  doctor  had 
practised  over,  or,  as  we  used  to  say  there,  ** ridden" 
the  south  side  of  the  country  for  nearly  forty  years. 
He  had  studied  medicine  with  the  intention  only  of 
saving  the  doctor's  bill  in  his  father's  household  of 
eighty  negroes.  He  had  soon,  however,  dropped  into 
a  regular  practice,  and  for  the  last  five-and-twenty 
years,  at  any  rate,  no  birth  or  death  within  a  radius  of 
ten  miles  would  have  been  considered  a  well-conducted 
one  without  his  good  offices.  The  doctor's  income,  up- 
on the  well-thumbed  scroll  of  hieroglyphics  that  he 
called  his  books,  was  nearly  three  thousand  dollars  a 
year.  He  collected  probably  about  fifteen  hundred.  A 
considerable  portion,  too,  of  this  fifteen  hundred  was 


288  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

received  in  kind  payments,  not  conveniently  convert- 
ible, such  as  bacon,  Indian  corn,  hams,  wheat  flour, 
woollen  yarns,  sucking  pigs,  home-made  brooms,  eggs, 
butter,  bricks,  SAveet-potato  slips,  sawn  plank,  tobacco- 
plants,  shingles,  chickens,  baskets,  sausage-meat,  sole- 
leather,  young  fruit  trees,  rawhides,  hoe-handles,  old 
iron.  To  utilize  these  various  commodities,  it  would 
have  been  necessary  for  the  doctor  to  have  had  a  farm, 
even  supposing  he  had  not  already  been  the  fortunate 
proprietor  of  two.  Indeed,  a  farm  to  a  Southern  doc- 
tor is  not  only  necessary  as  a  receptacle  for  the  agricul- 
tural curiosities  that  are  forced  upon  him  in  lieu  of 
payment,  but  for  the  actual  labor  of  those  many  dusky 
patients  who  can  give  no  other  return  for  physic  and 
attendance  received.  You  could  see  a  bevy  of  these 
Ethiopians  almost  any  day  upon  the  doctor's  farm, 
wandering  aimlessly  about  with  hoes  or  brier-blades, 
chattering  and  cackling  and  doing  everything  but 
work. 

The  doctor  might  have  been  called  a  successful  phy- 
sician. He  had  no  rivals.  There  were  two  inferior 
performers  in  the  district,  it  is  true,  who  were  by  way 
of  following  the  healing  art— small  farmers,  who  were 
reported  to  have  studied  medicine  in  their  youth.  One 
of  these,  however,  had  not  credit  sufficient  to  purchase 
drugs,  and  the  other  was  generally  drunk.  So  it  was 
only  their  near  relations,  when  not  dangerously  indis- 
posed, who  patronized  them — or  some  patient  of  the 
doctor's  now  and  again,  perhaps,  who  took  a  fancy  the 
latter  was  too  "aristocratic,"  till  he  got  badly  sick, 
and  returned  with  alacrity  to  his  allegiance.  There  is 
no  doubt,  I  fear,  but  that  the  doctor  practised  on  the 
lines  of  thirty  years  ago.  Tory  to  the  backbone  in 
every  other  department  of  life,  it  was  hardly  to  be  ex- 
pected that  he  should  have  panted  for  light  and  lead- 
ing in  that  branch  of  learning  in  which  he  had  no  rival 
within  reach.  Papers  or  magazines  connected  with  the 
healing  science  I  never  remember  to  have  seen  inside 
the  Patton  homestead;  and  yet,  after  a  great  deal  of 


AN  OLD  VIRGINIA  FOX  HUNTER.  289 

experience  of  the  good  old  man's  professional  care,  I 
have  a  sort  of  feeling  that  I  would  as  soon  place  my 
life  in  his  hands  as  in  the  hands  of  Sir  Omicron  Pi ! 

What  time  the  doctor  had  to  spare  from  physicking, 
I  have  said  he  devoted  to  farming  and  to  fox-hunting. 
I  should  like  to  follow  him  for  a  bit  on  his  long  pro- 
fessional rounds,  and  listen  to  his  cheery  talk  in  home- 
stead and  cabin ;  to  help  him  fill  his  long  pipe,  which 
he  draws  out  of  his  top-boot  when  the  patient  has  set- 
tled down  to  sleep  or  quiet;  to  hear  him  once  again 
chat  about  tobacco  and  wheat,  politics  and  foxes.  I 
should  like,  too,  to  say  something  of  the  doctor's  farm- 
ing—heaven save  the  mark— on  his  two  properties ;  the 
one  **  'ard"  him  by  his  father,  and  the  other  one,  the 
quarter  place  near  by,  that ' '  cum  to  him  with  his  wife, 
ole  Gunnel  Pendleton's  daughter." 

I  must  only  pause  to  remark,  however,  that  the  doc- 
tor farmed,  as  he  did  everything  else,  in  the  good  old 
Virginia  fashion— 'or  in  what  is  now  irreverently 
known  as  the  ''rip  and  tar  (tear)  principle."  He 
didn't  care  anything  about  acres  or  estimates;  and  as 
for  farm  books,  his  professional  accounts  pestered  him 
quite  enough.  Of  rotations,  he  neither  knew  nor  want- 
ed to  know  anything.  His  great  idea  was  to  plough 
and  sow  as  much  land  as  he  could  scuffle  over  with  all 
the  labor  he  could  scrape  together.  Of  manuring, 
clovering,  or  fertilizing,  he  t^ok  little  account.  If  he 
"pitched"  a  big  crop  only,  he  was  a  proud  and  happy 
man.  When  each  recurring  harvest  brought  results 
more  insignificant  than  the  last,  a  temporary  disgust 
with  the  whole  business  used  to  seize  on  my  old  friend, 
and  he  would  swear  that  the  wheat  crops  had  been  of 
no  account  since  the  war ;  that  tobacco  had  gone  to  the 
devil,  and  that  he  'd  quit  fooling  with  a  plantation  for 
good  and  all.  In  the  eyes  of  those  who  knew  him,  how- 
ever, such  tirades  meant  absolutely  nothing.  A  Vir- 
ginian of  his  description  could  no  more  have  helped 
farming  than  he  could  have  altered  any  other  of  the 
immutable  laws  of  nature.    A  younger  generation,  and 

2—19 


290         THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

many  indeed  of  the  older  one,  have  learned  wisdom 
and  prudence  in  the  management  of  land  since  the 
abolition  of  slavery.  The  doctor,  however,  and  the 
few  left  like  him,  will  be  land-killers  of  the  genial 
good  old  sort  till  they  lie  under  the  once  generous  sod 
they  have  so  ruthlessly  treated. 

The  doctor's  first  care  was  of  necessity  his  patients; 
but  there  is  no  doubt,  I  think,  that  his  real  affections 
were  divided  between  his  farm  and  his  fox-hounds. 
That  he  did  his  duty  by  the  former  was  amply  testified 
to  by  the  popularity  he  enjoyed.  That  he  signally 
failed  in  the  treatment  of  his  lands  was  quite  as  evi- 
dent. For  while  he  healed  the  sores  and  the  wounds  of 
his  patients,  the  sores,  the  wounds,  the  storm-rent  gtil- 
lies,  the  bare  galls  in  his  hillsides,  grew  worse  and 
worse.  The  maize-stalks  grew  thinner,  the  tobacco 
lighter,  the  wheat-yield  poorer,  year  by  year.  One  has 
heard  of  famous  painters,  who  perversely  fancied 
themselves  rather  as  musicians — of  established  authors 
who  yearned  rather  to  be  praised  as  artists.  So  the 
doctor,  who  certainly  had  no  local  rival  in  his  own  pro- 
fession, seemed  to  covet  fame  rather  as  the  champion 
and  exponent  of  a  happily  departing  school  of  South- 
ern agriculturists.  In  this  case,  the  income  derived 
from  the  profession  just  sufficed  to  make  good  the 
losses  on  the  farm.  So,  though  the  doctor,  in  spite  of 
his  household  expenses  being  almost  nil,  could  never 
by  any  chance  lay  his  hand  on  a  five-dollar  bill,  he 
managed  to  keep  upon  the  whole  pretty  free  from 
debt.  With  a  scattered  practice,  and  an  agricultural 
hobby  extending  over  one  thousand  acres,  including 
woods  and  old  fields  "turned  out"  to  recover,  it  may 
be  a  matter  of  surprise  that  our  old  friend  had  leisure 
for  a  third  indulgence,  especially  one  like  fox-hunting, 
which  is  connected  in  the  British  mind  with  such  a 
large  consumption  of  time.  Nevertheless,  the  doctor, 
like  most  of  his  compeers,  was  passionately  fond  of 
the  chase,  and  in  spite  of  the  war  and  altered  times, 
had  kept  hounds  round  him  almost  without  a  break 


AN  OLD  VIRGINIA  FOX  HUNTER.  291 

since  he  was  a  boy.  It  will  be  seen,  however,  that  fox- 
hunting, as  understood  and  followed  by  the  doctor,  was 
by  no  means  incompatible  with  his  more  serious  avo- 
cations. 

Now,  if  the  fashion  in  which  the  doctor  pursued 
the  wily  fox  was  not  orthodox  from  a  Leicestershire 
point  of  view,  it  was  for  all  that  none  the  less,  perhaps 
indeed  so  much  the  more,  genuine.  Around  New  York 
and  Philadelphia,  it  is  true,  the  sport  is  pursued  by 
fashionable  bankers,  brokers,  and  lawyers  in  a  style 
the  most  approved.  All  the  bravery  and  the  glitter, 
ay,  and  much  of  the  horsemanship  of  the  British  hunt- 
ing-field, is  there.  But,  like  polo  and  coaching,  it  is 
there  as  a  mere  exotic,  transplanted  but  yesterday,  to 
the  amazement  and  occasionally  indignation  of  the 
Long  Island  rustics  and  the  delight  of  the  society  pa- 
pers. Everything  is  there— hounds,  huntsmen,  whips, 
red  coats,  tops,  splendidly  mounted  hard-riding  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  sherry-flasks,  sandwich-boxes,  etc.,  etc., 
—everything,  in  short,  but  the  fox.  So  far,  however, 
as  I  can  learn,  such  an  omission  is  of  no  great  import- 
ance under  the  modern  conception  of  hunting.  That 
wouldn't  be  the  doctor's  way  of  thinking  at  all,though; 
for  I  must  here  remark,  that  that  worthy  sportsman's 
love  of  hunting  is  entirely  on  hereditary  principles  and 
of  native  growth.  Fox-hunting  for  two  centuries  has 
been  the  natural  pastime  of  the  Virginia  gentry.  They 
imported  the  chase  of  the  fox  and  its  customs  from 
the  mother  country  at  a  period  when  such  things  were 
conducted  in  a  very  different  style  from  what  they 
are  now. 

The  hunting  of  the  fox,  as  carried  on  in  England 
early  in  the  last  century,  let  us  say,  offered,  I  take  it, 
a  very  different  spectacle  from  that  seen  in  the  elab- 
orate and  gorgeous  cavalcades  and  the  rushing  fleet- 
footed  hounds  that  race  today  over  the  trim,  well- 
trained  turf  of  the  shires.  No  foxes  were  killed  in 
those  days  in  twenty-five  minutes,  I'll  warrant.  Men 
started  their  fox  at  daybreak  and  pottered  along,  ab- 


292  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

sorbed  in  the  performance  of  their  slow  hounds,  over 
the  rushy,  soppy,  heathy  country,  from  wood  to  wood, 
for  hours  and  hours.  They  were  lucky  then,  no  doubt, 
if  Reynard  succumbed  in  time  to  admit  of  their  punc- 
tual appearance  at  that  tremendous  three  o  'clock  orgie, 
which  the  poet  Thomson  has  so  graphically  laid  before 
us. 

Amid  the  glitter,  the  show,  the  dash,  the  swagger  of 
modern  fox-hunting,  Englishmen  who  are  not  masters 
of  hounds  or  huntsmen  are  apt  to  lose  sight  of  the  orig- 
inal ends  and  aims,  the  craft,  and  the  science  of  the 
sport.  It  seems  to  me  that  fox-hunting  nowadays,  with 
the  vast  mass  of  its  devotees,  is  simply  steeplechasing 
over  an  unknown  course.  This  is  unquestionably  a 
manly  and  a  fine  amusement,  and  far  be  it  from  me 
to  breathe  a  word  against  it.  I  only  wish  to  anticipate 
the  sneers  of  your  sporting  stock-broker  if  he  were  to 
catch  sight  of  the  doctor  and  his  hounds  upon  a  hunt- 
ing morning. 

With  the  average  Nimrod  of  modern  days,  I  venture 
then  to  assert  that  fox-hunting  is  only  a  modified  form 
of  steeplechasing.  AYith  the  Virginian,  who  is  simply 
a  survival  of  other  days,  it  is  nothing  of  the  kind.  The 
doctor  knew  nothing  of  bullfinches  or  double  ditches, 
of  post  and  rails  or  five-barred  gates,  in  a  sporting 
sense ;  but  what  he  did  not  know  about  a  fox  was  not 
worth  knowing  at  all.  As  for  his  hounds,  he  could  tell 
the  note  of  each  at  a  distance  when  the  music  of  a 
whole  pack  was  scarcely  audible  to  the  ordinary  ear. 

As  far  as  I  remember,  the  doctor  used  generally  to 
keep  about  five  couple  of  hounds.  It  is  needless  to  say 
he  always  swore  they  were  the  ' '  best  stock  of  fox-dogs 
in  the  State."  Jim  Pendleton,  his  cousin  across  the 
hill,  and  Judge  Massey,  on  the  north  side  of  the  county, 
who  also  kept  hounds,  were  quite  prepared  to  take  an 
affidavit  of  the  same  kind  with  regard  to  their  own  re- 
spective packs.  The  doctor's  hounds  lived  as  members 
of  the  family.  A  kind  of  effort  was  spasmodically 
made  to  keep  them  from  appropriating  the  parlor,  and 


AN  OLD  VIRGINIA  FOX  HUNTER.  293 

so  long  as  the  weather  was  mild,  they  were  fairly  con- 
tent to  lie  in  the  front  porch,  or  in  one  of  the  many 
passages  which  let  the  air  circulate  freely  through  the 
Patton  homestead. 

If  the  w^eather  was  cold,  however,  and  the  doctor  had 
a  fire  in  the  parlor,  the  older  and  more  knowing  dogs 
seldom  failed  eventually  to  gain  a  lodgment.  By  per- 
sistently coming  in  at  one  door,  and  when  kicked  out 
by  the  long-suffering  M.  F.  H.,  slowly  going  round  the 
house  and  slyly  entering  at  the  other,  they  invariably 
conquered  in  the  long  run,  and  established  themselves 
on  the  warm  bricks  of  the  hearth  before  the  great 
white-oak  logs  which  blazed  on  the  bright  brass  and- 
irons. 

Of  course  it  was  not  often  that  the  doctor  and  his 
hounds  were  all  at  home  together  on  a  winter's  day. 
If  the  latter  were  not  hunting  with  him,  they  were  out 
upon  their  own  account,  for,  be  it  noted,  they  were  ab- 
solutely their  own  masters,  as  is  the  way  with  Virginia 
fox-hounds.  If  the  doctor  chose  to  accompany  them 
and  do  a  great  deal  of  tooting  and  some  hallooing,  I 
have  no  doubt  a  certain  amount  of  satisfaction  ani- 
mated the  breasts  of  the  pack.  But  it  made  no  differ- 
ence whatever  to  the  sporting  arrangements  they  had 
planned  among  themselves,  or  to  their  general  pro- 
gramme. Whatever  happened,  they  were  bound  to 
have  their  hunt.  As  the  doctor's  pride  and  joy  was 
not  in  his  own  performance  in  the  pigskin — for  he 
never  attempted  any— but  in  the  achievements  of  his 
dogs,  this  want  of  discipline  and  respect  was  no  draw- 
back whatever  to  his  satisfaction. 

I  have  said  the  doctor  could  combine  his  favorite 
sport  with  the  exercise  of  his  profession.  That  is  to 
say,  if  he  were  going  out  in  any  likely  direction,  he 
would  manage  to  keep  his  hounds  around  him  till  he 
had  despatched  his  lamp-light  breakfast,  and  they 
would  all  start  together.  The  pack,  moreover,  was 
easily  increased,  for  the  doctor  had  only  to  step  around 
to  the  back  porch,  which  looked  across  the  valley  to 


294  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

Cousin  Jim  Pendleton's  place,  and  to  blow  lustily  on 
his  tremendous  cow-horn. 

A  very  little  of  this  music  was  sufficient  to  bring  the 
greater  part  of  the  rival  pack  scrambling  in  a  half- 
guilty  way  over  the  garden  fence.  After  a  little 
growling  and  snarling  and  snapping,  the  strangers 
would  settle  down  among  the  doctor's  hounds  as  if 
they  had  been  raised  on  the  place. 

See  the  doctor  attired  for  the  chase  emerging  with 
his  hounds  from  that  awful  front  gate  of  his,  which  is 
being  held  up  and  open  by  the  combined  efforts  of  two 
stalwart  negroes.  It  is  a  mild  and  soft  February  morn- 
ing, at  about  the  hour  when  the  sun  would  be  seen 
mounting  over  the  leafless  woodlands  to  the  east  of 
the  house,  if  it  were  not  for  the  dark  banks  of  clouds 
chasing  one  another  in  continuous  succession  from  the 
southwest.  The  doctor  is  not  quite  such  a  scarecrow 
today.  The  weather  is  mild,  and  he  has  left  the  coils 
of  straw  behind,  having  his  stout  legs  encased  in  grey 
homespun  overalls,  which  he  calls  leggings.  The  long 
Bull's  Run  spur  is  on  his  left  heel.  The  black  cloak 
with  the  red  lining  is  on  his  back.  The  slouch  hat 
upon  his  head,  and  spectacles  upon  his  nose.  A  high 
standup  collar  of  antique  build  and  a  black  stock  give 
the  finishing  touch  to  a  picture  whose  "  old-timiness, " 
as  the  Americans  say,  would  have  thrown  a  Boston 
novelist  into  convulsions  of  ecstasy. 

The  doctor  this  morning  is  combining  business  with 
pleasure.  He  has  to  visit  the  widow  Gubbins,  who  fell 
down  the  cornhouse  steps  the  week  before,  and  broke 
her  leg.  But  he  has  had  word  sent  to  him  that  there 
is  a  red  fox  in  the  pine  wood  behind  the  parsonage, 
hard  by  the  Gubbins  domicile.  I  need  not  say  the  sad- 
dle-bags and  the  medicine  bottles  are  there;  but,  be- 
sides these,  there  is  a  great  big  cow-horn  which  the 
doctor  carries  slung  round  him,  and  blows  long  blasts 
upon  as  he  goes  "titupping"  down  the  muddy  lane. 
These  blasts  are  rather  with  a  view  of  personal  solace 
than  for  any, definite  aims.   .The  doctor  loves  the  horn 


AN  OLD  VIRGINIA  FOX  HUNTER.  295 

for  its  associations,  and  ^oes  toot-tooting  down  the 
soft  red  road,  and  waking  the  echoes  of  the  woods  and 
fields  solely  for  his  own  personal  benefit  and  refresh- 
ment. Hector  and  Rambler,  Fairfax  and  Dainty,  and 
the  rest— little  wiry,  lean  fellows  of  about  two-and- 
twenty  inches— hop  over  the  big  mudholes,  or  creep 
around  the  dry  fence  corners  waiting  for  the  first  bit 
of  unfenced  woodland  to  trot  over  and  commence  the 
day's  operations. 

The  doctor,  however,  is  determined,  if  possible,  to 
keep  them  in  hand  till  they  reach  the  haunt  of  that 
aforesaid  red  fox  which  is  said  to  be  lurking  in  the 
parson's  wood.  He  hopes  to  be  able  to  exercise  au- 
thority sufficient  to  keep  these  independent  dogs  of  his 
from  getting  on  the  trail  of  a  ringing,  skulking  grey 
fox  in  the  first  ivy  thicket  or  open  bit  of  forest  they 
come  to.  It  is  no  manner  of  use,  however.  The  rutty, 
soppy  road,  soon  after  it  leaves  the  doctor's  estate, 
straggles  unfenced  through  half  a  mile  of  mazy  wood- 
land. Though  it  is  a  historic  turnpike  of  old  coaching 
fame — a  road  the  memory  of  whose  once  bustling 
gaiety  well-nigh  brings  tears  to  the  eyes  of  the  old  in- 
habitants—it is  scarcely  visible  to  the  rare  wagoner  or 
horseman  in  these  degenerate  times,  from  the  wealth 
of  autumn  leaves  that  hide  its  rugged  face.  Into  the 
wood  plunge  the  eager  and  undisciplined  hounds,  the 
dry  leaves  crackling  and  rustling  under  their  joyous 
feet  as  they  scamper  and  race  amid  the  tall  oak  and 
poplar  trunks,  and  one  by  one  disappear  beyond  the 
very  limited  horizon.  The  doctor  toots  and  toots  till 
not  only  tlie  forest  but  the  hills  and  valleys  beyond 
echo  to  the  appeals  of  the  familiar  cow-horn.  Mighty 
little,  however,  care  the  dogs  for  such  tooting.  They 
look  upon  it  as  a  harmless  sign  of  encouragement,  a 
pleasant  accompaniment  to  the  preliminaries  until  the 
more  serious  work  begins.  Nor  do  they  care  in  the 
least  when  the  doctor  drops  his  horn  and  begins  to 
halloo  and  shout  and  storm— not  they.  He  might  as 
well  shout  and  storm  at  the  wind.     The  doctor  gets 


296  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

very  mad.  He  doesn't  swear— Virginians  of  his  class 
and  kind  very  seldom  do— but  he  uses  all  the  forms  of 
violent  exhortation  that  his  conscience  admits  of,  and 
that  belongs  to  the  local  vernacular.  He  calls  the 
whole  pack  "grand  scoundrels  and  villains."  In  a 
voice  grown  husky  with  exertion,  he  inquires  of  their 
fast-fading  forms  if  they  know  "what  in  thunder  he 
feeds  them  for?"  He  roars  out  to  little  Blazer,  the 
only  one  left  within  good  speaking  distance  that  he'll 
*  *  whale  the  life  out  of  him ; ' '  whereupon  little  Blazer 
disappears  after  the  rest.  So  he  finally  confides  to  the 
sorrel  mare,  which  is  ambling  along  under  him  at  the 
regulation  five-mile-an-hour  gait  of  the  Southern  road- 
ster, that  these  dogs  of  Cousin  Jeems'  (the  doctor  says 
"  Jeems,"  not  because  he  doesn't  know  any  better,  but 
because  it  is  a  good  old  Virginia  way  of  pronouncing 
the  name)  are  the  hardest-headed  lot  of  fox-dogs 
south  of  the  Potomac  River. 

But  hark !  There  is  a  boom  from  the  pine  wood,  the 
deep  green  of  whose  fringe  can  be  seen  far  away 
through  the  naked  stems  and  leafless  branches  of  the 
oaks.  The  doctor  pulls  up;  he  "concludes  he'll  wait 
awhile  and  see  what  it  amounts  to,  any  way."  The 
scoundrels  are  probably  fooling  after  a  rabbit,  or,  at 
the  best,  have  struck  the  trail  of  a  grey  fox  (the  most 
common  native  breed,  that  won't  face  the  open  or  run 
straight).  The  doctor  draws  rein  at  the  edge  of  the 
wood,  where  the  straggling  forest  road  once  more  be- 
comes a  highway,  fenced  in  from  fields  of  young 
wheat,  pasture  and  red  fallow.  He  thinks  the  widow 
Gubbins  can  wait  a  bit,  and  that  old  red  fox  at  the 
parson's  can  lay  over  for  another  day. i 

"That's  old  Powhatan,  cert 'n  and  sure;  and  that's 
a  fox  of  some  sort,  I'll  sw'ar,"  remarks  our  old  friend 
to  the  sorrel  mare,  which  pricks  up  her  ears  as  another 
deep  note  comes  echoing  from  the  valley  below. , 

It  is  late  in  February ;  and  though  February  in  Vir- 
ginia is  practically  the  same  dead,  colorless,  leafless, 
budless,  harsh  winter  month  it  is  with  us,  yet  there 


AN  OLD  VIRGINIA  FOX  HUNTER.  237 

are  sometimes  days  before  it  closes  that  seem  to  breathe 
of  a  yet  distant  spring  with  more  witching  treachery 
than  the  greatest  effort  that  period  can  make  in  our 
more  methodical  clime.  And  this  is  one  of  them.  The 
soft  and  balmy  air  is  laden,  it  is  true,  with  no  scent  of 
blossoms  or  opening  buds.  The  odor  of  smouldering 
heaps  of  burning  brush  and  weeds,  or  of  tardily  burnt 
tobacco-plant  beds,  is  all  that  as  yet  scents  the  breeze. 
But  after  a  month  of  frost  and  rain  and  snow  and 
clouds,  the  breath  is  the  breath  of  spring,  and  the  glow 
of  the  sun,  now  bursting  through  the  clouds,  seems  no 
longer  the  sickly  glare  of  winter.  The  soft  Virginia 
landscape,  swelling  in  gentle  waves  of  forest,  field,  and 
fallow  to  the  great  mountains  that  lie  piled  up  far 
away  against  the  western  sky,  is  naked  still  and  bare, 
save  for  the  splashes  of  green  pine  woods  here  and 
there  upon  the  land.  But  there  is  a  light  in  the  sky 
and  a  feel  in  the  air  that  seems  almost  to  chide  the 
earth  for  its  slow  response.  The  blood  courses  quicker 
through  the  veins  of  even  easy-going  Virginia  farmers 
at  the  thoughts  of  seeding- time.  The  negro's  head 
comes  up  from  under  his  shoulders  and  his  hands  from 
his  pockets,  where  they  have  each  respectively  spent 
most  of  the  winter,  and  the  air  becomes  laden  with 
those  peculiar  dirges  that  mark  the  Ethiopian's  con- 
tentment of  mind  at  the  prospect  of  warm  weather 
and  of  his  limbs  once  more  becoming  "souple."  The 
soft  breeze  begins  to  coat  the  tops  of  the  damp  furrows 
with  a  thin,  powdery  crust  that  in  a  few  days'  time 
will  be  converted  into  that  March  dust  so  universally 
beloved  of  farmers.  The  young  wheat,  smitten  and 
scorched  and  beaten  almost  out  of  recognition,  lifts  its 
head  once  again  and  spreads  a  carpet  of  tender  green 
to  the  sun.  The  early  lambs,  beginning  to  think  that 
after  all  they  were  not  sent  into  the  world  to  shiver  be- 
hind strawstacks,  frisk  and  gambol  in  the  fields.  The 
blacksmiths'  shops  at  the  cross  roads  and  the  court- 
house villages  are  thronged  with  colored  laborers  and 
tenants,  whose  masters,  now  seeding-time  is  upon  them, 


298  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

have  suddenly  remembered  that  every  plow  in  the 
place  is  out  of  fix,  and  not  a  harrow  has  its  full  com- 
plement of  teeth.  The  light  breezes  from  the  south- 
west moans  softly  in  the  pines ;  but  among  the  decid- 
uous trees  not  a  withered  shred  of  foliage  is  left  for  it 
to  stir,  and  the  silence  is  complete.  The  freshly  awak- 
ened sunlight  streams  softly  down  between  the  leafless 
branches  and  the  rugged  trunks  of  oak  and  chestnut, 
hickory  and  poplar,  and  plays  upon  the  golden  carpet 
of  wasted  leaves  that  hides  the  earth  beneath  them. 

The  doctor,  as  he  stands  at  the  edge  of  the  forest, 
would  ordinarily  upon  such  a  day  be  deep  in  agricul- 
tural reveries  of  a  most  sanguine  nature.  But  he  is 
now  waiting  for  one  more  note  of  evidence  that  there 
is  a  prospect  of  what  he  would  call  "a  chase"— hes- 
itating as  to  the  widow  Gubbins. 

Suddenly  there  is  a  great  commotion  in  the  wooded 
valley  beneath,  and  in  a  few  seconds  you  might  be  in 
Leicestershire  spinny,  so  busy  and  joyful  are  the  little 
pack  with  their  tongues.  "That's  a  fox,  any  way," 
says  the  doctor  to  the  sorrel  mare,  ' '  and,  likely  as  not, 
a  red."  Two  small  farmers,  jogging  down  the  road, 
pull  up  their  horses  and  yell  with  the  peculiar  shrill 
scream  that  is  traditionally  as  much  a  part  of  Virginia 
fox-hunting  as  the  familiar  cries  of  the  British  hunt- 
ing-field are  with  us.  The  doctor,  though  his  voice  is 
not  what  it  was  thirty  years  ago,  catches  the  infection, 
and  standing  up  in  his  wooden,  leather-capped  stir- 
rups, halloos  at  his  hounds  in  what  he  would  call 
"real  old  Virginia  fashion."    • 

"By  G— d!  it's  a  red,"  says  one  of  the  small  farm- 
ers, who  had  perched  himself  on  the  top  of  the  fence, 
so  as  to  look  down  over  the  sloping  tree-tops  on  to  the 
opposite  hill. 

"The  dogs  are  out  of  the  wood,  and  are  streakin'  it 
up  the  broom-sedge  field  yonder— dawg  my  skin  if 
they  ain't!" 

This  is  too  much  for  the  doctor. 

"Pull  down  the  fence,  gentlemen,  for  God's  sake  I 


AN  OLD  VIRGINIA  FOX  HUNTER.  299 

and  we'll  push  on  up  to  the  old  Matthews  graveyard 
on  top  of  the  hill.  We  shall  see  right  smart  of  the 
chase  from  there,  I  know  that  old  fos;  he'll  go 
straight  to  the  pines  on  Squire  Harrison's  quarter 
place." 

The  four  or  five  top  rails  are  tossed  off  the  snake 
fence;  but  the  doctor  can't  wait  for  the  remaining 
six.  The  long  spur  is  applied  to  the  flank  of  the  sorrel 
mare,  the  apple  switch  to  her  shoulder.  Amid  a  crash- 
ing and  scattering  of  rotten  chestnut-rails,  the  doctor, 
cloak,  and  spectacles,  saddle-bags,  pills,  medicine-bot- 
tles, and  overalls,  lands  safely  in  the  corn-stalk  field 
upon  the  other  side.  The  two  farmers  follow  through 
the  fearful  breach  he  has  made,  and  they  may  soon 
all  be  heard  upon  the  opposite  hill  cheering  and  yell- 
ing to  the  hounds,  which  by  this  time  are  well  out  of 
reach  of  such  encouraging  sounds.  Neither  the  coun- 
try, nor  the  horse,  nor  the  doctor  is  adapted  for  rid- 
ing to  hounds;  nor,  as  I  have  before  intimated,  has 
the  latter  any  idea  of  doing  so.  The  good  man  wants 
to  hear  as  much  as  possible— of  the  chase ;  but  when 
he  neither  sees  nor  hears  a  great  deal— which,  when 
a  strong  red  fox  goes  straight  away,  is  generally  the 
ease— he  will  still  take  much  delight  in  collecting  the 
details  from  other  sources. 

If  his  hounds  eventually,  kill  their  fox  half-way 
across  the  county,  friends  and  neighbors,  who  became 
accidental  witnesses  of  various  stages  of  the  chase, 
and  each  of  whom  did  their  share  of  hallooing  and 
cheering,  will  send  round  word  to  the  "old  doctor," 
or  "call  by"  the  next  time  they  pass  his  house,  and 
cheer  his  heart  with  praises  of  his  dogs.  The  doctor 
will  probably  have  bandaged  Mrs.  Gubbins's  leg,  and 
be  half-way  home  by  the  time  the  death-scene  takes 
place,  in  some  laurel  thicket  possibly  miles  and  miles 
away  from  the  corner  where  we  left  our  friend  burst- 
ing through  the  fence.  Not  more  than  half  a  dozen, 
probably,  of  the  fourteen  or  fifteen  hounds  with 
which  the  doctor  started,  will  assist  at  the  finish.  Two 
or  three  of  the  puppies  will  have  dropped  out  early 


300  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

in  the  day,  and  come  home  hunting  rabbits  all  the 
way.  Three  or  four  more  are  perhaps  just  over  dis- 
temper, and  will  fall  in  their  tracks,  to  come  limping 
and  crawling  home  at  noon.  Rambler  and  Fairfax, 
however,  having  assisted  at  the  finish,  and  being  per- 
haps the  most  knowing  old  dogs  of  the  lot,  will  have 
trotted  round  to  old  Colonel  Peyton's  close  by.  They 
are  mighty  hungry— for  Virginia  hounds  won't  touch 
foxes'  flesh— and  they  succeed  in  slipping  into  the 
log  kitchen  in  the  yard,  while  ]\Ielindy,  the  cook,  is 
outside  collecting  chips,  and  abstracting  from  the  top 
of  the  stove  an  entire  ham.  The  said  ham  was  Just 
prepared  for  the  colonel's  supper;  but  in  fox-hunting 
all  is  forgiven.  So  after  a  little  burst  of  wrath  he 
reckons  they  are  the  old  doctor's  dogs,  shuts  them  up 
in  the  granary,  and  gives  them  a  cake  of  corn-bread 
apiece.  The  following  day  is  Saturday,  and  the  col- 
onel's son,  home  from  school  for  a  holiday,  thinks 
it  an  opportunity  for  a  rabbit-hunt  in  the  pines  be- 
hind the  house  not  to  be  missed.  So  Rambler  and 
Fairfax  are  introduced  to  the  proposed  scene  of  ac- 
tion in  the  morning.  After  condescending  to  an  hour 
of  this  amusement,  they  hold  a  canine  consultation, 
and  start  for  home,  where  they  finally  ai'rive  about 
sundown,  to  be  made  much  of  by  the  doctor,  who  has 
already  heard  of  the  finish  from  a  negro  who  was 
splitting  rails  close  by. 

The  doctor's  satisfaction  is  quite  as  great  as  if  he 
had  cut  down  a  whole  Leicestershire  field  in  the  fastest 
thing  of  the  season.  His  heart  warms  towards  those 
undersized,  harsh-coated,  slab-sided  little  friends  of 
his  as  he  stands  watching  the  negro  woman  breaking 
up  their  supper  of  hot  corn-bread  with  buttermilk 
as  a  treat,  on  the  back  porch.  They  have  all  come  in 
by  this  time,  and  scuffle  and  growi  and  snap  around 
the  board  as  the  food  is  thrown  to  them. 

The  knowing  ones  take  advantage  of  such  an  even- 
ing as  this  to  assert,  with  more  than  usual  assurance, 
their  right  of  entry  to  the  house.  The  doctor  has  had 
his  supper,  and  hopes  that  no  ominous  shout  from 


AN  OLD  VIRGINIA  FOX  HUNTER.  301 

the  darkness  will,  for  this  night  at  any  rate,  call  him 
to  some  distant  sick-bed.  He  has  drawn  up  his  one- 
armed  rocking-chair  to  the  parlor  fire,  and  by  the 
kerosene  lamp  is  poring  over  the  last  oration  on  free 
trade  by  that  grand  old  Virginia  gentleman  and  sen- 
ator, Mr.  Jefferson  Randolph  Beverly  Page.  Con- 
scious, as  it  were,  that  some  extra  indulgence  is  de- 
served on  this  night,  the  dogs  begin  to  crawl  in.  One 
by  one,  beginning  with  the  oldest  and  wiliest  and 
ending  with  the  timidest  puppy,  they  steal  into  the 
room  and  become  grouped  in  the  order  of  their  audac- 
ity from  the  glowing  bricks  of  the  hearth  outward 
to  the  door. 

Nor  to-night  has  the  doctor  kicks  or  cuffs  or  an- 
athemas for  the  very  worst  of  them. 

The  great  oak  logs  blaze  and  crackle  and  roar  in  the 
wide  chimney,  and  the  light  of  the  flames  flickers  over 
the  quaint,  low-ceilinged  room  with  its  whitewashed 
walls,  black  wainscotting,  and  homely  decorations; 
over  the  antlers  on  the  door,  that  recall  some  early 
exploit  of  the  doctor's  in  West  Virginia  wilds;  over 
the  odds  and  ends  of  old  silver  on  the  sideboard,  that 
have  been  saved  from  the  wreck  of  the  Patton  grand- 
eur; over  the  big  oil-painting  of  the  famous  jurist, 
and  the  dimmer,  smokier  visages  of  less  distinguished 
but  remoter  ancestors,  who  believed  in  the  divine  right 
of  kings  and  knew  nothing  of  republics  and  universal 
suffrage.  Here,  however,  surrounded  by  his  dogs, 
we  must  take  leave  of  the  doctor.  There  are  few  like 
him  left  now  in  Virginia,  and  fewer  still  who  have 
clung  to  the  good  and  bad  of  a  departed  era  with  the 
same  uncompromising  tenacity  as  our  old  friend. 
They  were  a  fine  race— deny  it  who  will— these  old 
Virginia  squires;  provincial  and  prejudiced  perhaps, 
but  full  of  originality  and  manly  independence. 
Their  ideas,  it  is  true,  are  not  those  of  the  latter  half 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  but  the  men  themselves 
are  passing  rapidly  away,  and  their  ideas  with  them. 
Those  who  have  known  them  can  only  regret  that  a 
strong,  picturesque,  and  admirable  type  of  Anglo- 
Saxon  has  disappeared  forever  from  the  ranks  of  our 
great  family,  unpainted  by  a  single  master-hand  of 
contemporary  date. 

A.  G.  Bradley. 


XX 

THE  DOCTOR'S  FRONT  YARD. 

T  ALL  began  with  the  tap  of  a  gavel— an 
imposing  white  gavel  adorned  with  a  yellow 
bow  and  resounding  like  the  crack  of  doom. 
Behind  it,  under  a  nodding  purple  ostrich  feather, 
sat  Mrs.  Bunker;  before  it  the  eight  awe-struck  mem- 
bers of  the  Village  Improvement  Society;  enveloping 
us  all  in  its  cold,  judicial  atmosphere  was  room  No.  10 
of  the  new  toAvn  building,  maintained  as  a  meeting 
place  in  order  to  give  dignity  to  our  association,  and 
its  rent  representing  just  so  many  entertainments  and 
strawberry-festivals  per  annum. 

Mrs.  Bunker  is  the  "progressive  woman"  of  West 
Hedgeworth.  She  lives  in  that  large,  white  house  with 
the  terraces  and  box  borders  and  a  fountain,  just 
W'here  you  turn  into  Main  street.  She  goes  to  Boston 
twice  each  season  to  get  clothes  and  ideas  upon  which 
she  feeds  our  little  social  circle  through  the  medium 
of  clubs  and  afternoon  teas.  The  clothes  are  remark- 
able, the  ideas  equally  up  to  date ;  we  look  upon  her 
mth  reverence  and  obey  her  slightest  mandate. 

I  believe  I  am  the  only  one  who  now  and  then  rebels 
inwardly.  Why,  for  example,  I  should  have  been 
considered  eligible  for  the  V.  I.  S.,  a  girl  of  twenty- 
three,  with  not  the  slightest  pretensions  to  domestic 
talent  or  judgment,  except  that  I  have  had  to  take 
care  of  father  and  the  boys  for  the  last  few  years,  I 
couldn't  see, — nor  could  any  one  else;  but  Mrs.  Bunk- 
er had  ordained  that  I  should  go  into  it,  and  I  had 
no  choice. 

"You  are  a  very  clever  girl,  Irene,"  she  explained 
severely,  as  if  this  were  a  situation  to  be^  deprecated, 

(302) 


THE  DOCTOR'S  FRONT  YARD.  303 

but  could  be  atoned  for  by  penance  of  some  sort,  "and 
it  would  be  extremely  unfortunate  for- you  to  bave  no 
outlet  for  your  talents.  People  sbould  take  up  the 
work  that  best  suits  them." 

I  withdrew  all  objections,  of  course.  If  Mrs.  Bun- 
ker pronounces  one  clever,  no  matter  how  wretched 
one  may  be  under  the  verdict,  there  is  never  any  ap- 
peal from  it.  But  as  the  progressive  woman  is  always 
ready  to  shoulder  the  responsibility  of  her  friends' 
cleverness,  I  haven't  found  mine  a  very  great  burden. 
So  far  as  the  duties  of  membership  in  the  Village  Im- 
provement Society  are  concerned,  they  only  consist 
in  doing  as  one  is  bid.  The  gavel  roused  me  from  a 
study  of  bonnets.  Mrs.  Suter,  the  wife  of  our  good 
druggist,  and  Mrs.  Pitman,  the  postmaster's  lady,  al- 
ways faithfully  advertise  the  village  milliner  in 
familiar  blaek-laee-covered  frames,  the  one  adorned 
with  aggressive  bunches  of  buttercups,  the  other 
trailed  over  by  a  hairy-leaved  poppy.  Mrs.  Cope,  the 
Episcopal  clergyman's  wife,  has  the  parish  down  upon 
her  for  appearing  in  unmistakable  French  headgear, 
simple,  but  beyond  imitation ;  it  does  not  justify  her 
•in  their  eyes  that  the  hats  come  from  a  rich  relative, 
andthepoor  soul  is  credited  with  proud  and  haughty 
aspirations,  of  which  she  is  as  innocent  as  a  babe.  Miss 
Maria  Withers'  strong  point  is  not  fashion;  so  the 
little  parched,  limp,  black  bonnet  which  she  has  found 
satisfactory  for  eight  years,  stiU  perches  above  her 
gray  curls.  I  was  absorbed  in  working  out  a  series  of 
arguments  on  the  effect  of  dress  upon  character,  when 
the  white  gavel  descended  and  the  Society  came  to 
order  with  a  start. 

We  are  nothing  if  not  parliamentary.  The  latest 
manual  lies  at  Mrs.  Bunker 's  right  hand.  Miss  Scrap- 
son,  of  the  academy,  makes  an  excellent  secretary,  and 
her  minutes  -are  comprehensive.  Miss  Witliers,  as 
treasurer,  is  somewhat  rambling  and  uncertain.  Her 
reports  are  subject  to  pauses,  silent  mental  calcula- 
tions and  ejaculations  of  "Dear  me,— no,  that  wasn't 


304  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

it— just  wait  a  minute,"  and  excursious  into  a  little 
black  bag  which  she  carries,  after  missing  items  on 
stray  scraps  of  paper.  Mrs.  Bunker  bears  this  with  self- 
control,  as  Miss  Llaria  has  valuable  qualities.  Miss 
Scrapson  and  Mrs.  Cope  play  into  her  hands  most 
cleverly  in  a  discussion  over  a  motion  or  a  point  of 
order.  We  manage  to  have  a  little  unfinished  business 
on  the  carpet,  usually,  to  give  style  to  the  meeting, 
and  altogether  maintain  an  air  of  importance  Which  is 
quite  remarkable  for  a  small  village  club.  But  on  this 
particular  day,  a  May  morning,  I  saw  in  our  presi- 
dent's eye  that  there  was  sometliing  new  and  exciting 
to  be  taken  up. 

"Ladies,"  she  announced  at  last,  "our  Spring  cam- 
paign is  opening  with  opportunities  of  no  mean  order. 
The  village  of  West  Hedgeworth  is  menaced  with  a 
disgrace  which  so  far  outdoes  in  horror  even  the  pea- 
nut shells  on  the  postoffice  floor  and  the  loose  papers 
on  the  common  that  words  almost  fail  me  as  I  men- 
tion it.    Give  me  your  close  attention,  please." 

Ever  since  the  meeting  when  Mrs.  Bunker  took  Mrs. 
Pitman  to  task  for  the  condition  of  her  ash  barrels, 
\ve  have  been  subject  to  a  weak-kneed  and  guilty  sen- 
sation when  she  gives  us  an  introduction  of  this  sort. 

"You  probably  know,"  she  continued  in  more  col- 
loquial style,  "the  small  house  with  pointed  gables  and 
a  piazza,  fronting  the  common  next  the  old  Benjamin 
place.  You  are  aware  how  neatly  it  has  always  been 
kept  by  former  occupants.  That  house  is  just  rented 
by  a  doctor  who  has  come  here  with  his  wife,  I  am 
told,  from  New  York.  They  moved  in  a  week  ago,  and 
in  that  short  space  of  time,— owe  week,  ladies, — they 
have  made  the  premises  a  blot  upon  the  scutcheon  of 
our  lovely  village.  Their  packing-cases  were  unloaded 
on  the  piazza  in  a  high  -wind,  and  bits  of  paper,  ex- 
celsior and  what  not  are  scattered  from  end  to  end  of 
the  yard ;  boxes,  planks,  tin  cans  and  other  refuse  are 
piled  at  one  side;  the  whole  appearance  of  the  estab- 
lishment is  enough  to  make  one  of  ws,"— impressively 


THE  DOCTOR'S  FRONT  YARD  305 

—"avert  her  head  in  passing  it.  And  still  the  scan- 
dal goes  on,  unabated,  from  day  to  day.  It  is  a  mo- 
ment for  immediate  action,  a  moment  to  be  seized  by 
patriotic  and  public-spirited  women,  and  the  disturb- 
ers of  our  peace  of  mind  made  to  feel  the  necessity  of 
taking  immediate  steps  towards  reform.  I  lay  the  ease 
before  you,  ladies,  for  suggestions  as  to  prompt  ag- 
gression. ' ' 

There  was  a  suitable  pause.  Then  Miss  Withers' 
gentle  voice  piped  up.  "This  is  really  a  dreadful 
state  of  things, ' '  she  began  mildly.  ' '  I  hadn  't  noticed 
it  myself,  I  suppose  because"— 

"Hadn't  noticed  it!"  ejaculated  the  president,  in 
tones  of  thunder. 

' '  I  was  going  to  say, ' '  fluttered  Miss  Maria  hurried- 
ly, ' '  because  I  haven 't  passed  there  in  two  weeks.  If 
I  had,  no  doubt  I  should  have  been  very  much  an- 
noyed about  it." 

'^ Annoyed!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bunker  again,  sav- 
agely. "Annoyance  is  altogether  too  personal  a  term. 
It  arouses  all  my  loyalty  to  the  society;  that's  the  way 
it  impresses  me." 

Of  course  this  brought  forth  many  protestations  of 
the  same  sentiment  from  the  rest  of  us.  Then  Mrs. 
Pitman  ventured  to  ask  if  Mrs.  Bunker  didn't  think  it 
would  be  well  to  send  a  committee  to  the  doctor  and 
ask  him  to  "clear  up  a  little." 

"The  chair  has  no  thoughts,  Mrs.  Pitman,"  an- 
swered that  body  loftily.     ' '  I  await  a  motion. ' ' 

I  always  second  everybody  else's  motion,  but  have 
never  made  one  yet,  in  the  meetings.  Miss  Scrapson, 
however,  came  to  the  fore,  and  it  was  presently  de- 
cided that  the  president  should  appoint  a  committee 
to  visit  the  doctor  and  his  lady  and  reprove  them, 

"If  that  is  really  the  pleasure  of  the  Association," 
said  Mrs.  Bunker,  with  a  wave  of  her  purple  ostrich 
plume,  "I  will  appoint  Miss  Allison"  (that  is  ray 
name),  "a  committee  of  one  to  call  at  the  doctor's 
house  for  this  purpose.    As  you  are  one  of  the  young 

2-20 


306  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

ladies  of  the  place,  Irene,  it  would  be  in  the  way  of 
your  social  duty  at  any  rate.  You  can  mingl'e  busi- 
ness with  pleasure." 

"Yes,— but  Mrs.  Bunker,  I  never  could  mingle 
things!  Don't  ask  me  to  go,"  I  implored.  "I'm  sure 
I  shall  make  a  failure  of  it.  I  don't  want  to  offend 
them,  you  know,— they  may  be  nice  people." 

''Nice  people!"  Mrs.  Bunker  compressed  her  lips 
into  that  peculiar  stiff  smile  which  means  scorn,  and 
closed  her  eyes  slowly  with  her  head  tilted  back. 

"They  certainly  must  be  lax,"  murmured  Miss 
Scrapson,— "very  lax."  Nobody,  however,  came  to 
my  rescue.  I  was  evidently  doomed  to  be  the  unhappy 
instrument  of  the  Society's  revenge.  I  gave  in  and 
took  my  instructions  as  meekly  as  t  could, 

"The  wife  has  an  extremely  youthful  and  inexper- 
ienced air, ' '  said  my  mentor,  * '  and  undoubtedly  needs 
a  little  judicious  instruction.  It  will  alarm  her  less 
to  be  confronted  by  a  person  of  her  owti  age.  Our 
work  is  largely  educational,  you  know,  so  do  not  an- 
tagonize her.  Simply  say  to  her  something  of  this 
kind  in  gentle  but  firm  tones:  'My  dear  madam,  do 
you  not  appreciate  the  beauty  of  this  peaceful  little 
village,  and  will  you  not  bear  your  part  henceforward 
in  the  maintenance  of  its  order  and  symmetry  ? '  Such 
a  method  of  speech  would  be  better  than  to  alarm  her. 
And  yet  don't  fail  to  impress  upon  her  that  disorder 
simply  cannot  6e." 

I  acquiesced,  with  a  slightly  strangling  sound,  which 
the  president  did  not  notice,  fortunately.  It  resulted 
from  physical  distress  of  a  kind  which  is  sometimes  on 
these  occasions,  beyond  control.  It  was  with  me  yet, 
in  a  milder  form,  as  I  ascended  the  doctor's  steps  that 
afternoon,  card-case  in  hand,  which  last  appendage 
seemed  the  most  despicable  mockery. 

The  house  was  a  neat,  smart  little  affair  in  its  way, 
inartistic,  but  not  aggressively  ugly,  and  well  arranged 
for  professional  purposes.  The  sign,  Dr.  M.  E.  Rich- 
mond, was  tacked  up  beside  the  door.    There  certainly 


THE  DOCTOR'S  FRONT  YARD.  307 

were  evidences  of  an  upheaval,  however,  in  plain  sight. 
The  front  yard  was,  as  Mrs.  Bunker  had  described  it, 
littered  with  papers  and  excelsior,  the  piazza  floor  as 
bad.  At  the  side  of  the  house  was  a  pile  of  tin  cans, 
boxes,  broken  china  and  other  unsightly  abominations. 
Somehow  one  could  not  help  feeling  that  a  woman's 
eye  and  touch  were  wanting,  and  I  found  myself  stiff- 
ening against  the  wife  who  could  allow  such  a  state  of 
affairs  to  go  on.  My  primmest  expression  was  ready, 
as  the  door  flew  open,  swung  hospitably  wide  by  a  big 
young  man  with  a  short  brown  beard  and  gray  eyes. 
The  moment  I  saw  him  it  occurred  to  me  to  wonder 
what  he  would  take  me  for— patient,  caller,  or  perhaps 
an  agent!  Horrible  thought,  that  last,— I  found  a  cer- 
tain timidity  threatening  my  assurance. 

"Might  I,"  I  began,  putting  myself  into  the  latter 
category  at  once  by  my  mode  of  address,  "might  I 
see  the  lady  of  the  house,  please  ? ' ' 

"Walk  in,  won't  you?"  said  the  doctor  affably,  ush- 
ering me  into  what  happened  to  be  his  office.  Ah,— 
one  knew  now  a  little  better  where  one  was.  What- 
ever its  exterior  shortcomings,  this  must  be  the  home 
of  thoroughly  cultivated  people.  Their  furniture  was 
solid,  their  pictures  were  fine,  and  their  few  decora- 
tions faultless. 

As  to  their  books,  filling  all  available  space,  no  li- 
brary critic  could  find  the  selection  wanting  in  true 
literary  discrimination.  I  felt  the  courage  of  my  mis- 
sion diminishing  as  I  slid  into  a  leather  covered  arm 
chair  opposite  the  easy,  amused  looking  doctor. 

"  I  'm  so  very  sorry, ' '  he  observed, ' '  that  she  isn  't  at 
home.  She  went  away  by  the  early  train  this  morn- 
ing ;  but  perhaps  you  could  leave  a  message  with  me 
if  it's  a  matter  of  importance." 

There  was  a  short  but  awkward  pause.  No  help  for 
it,— I  might  as  well  make  the  plunge.  The  more  Bun- 
kerish  I  could  be,  the  better,  if  any  stern  message 
was  to  be  sent  to  the  wife  by  this  good-natured  per- 
sonage. 


308  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

''I  wanted  to  see  Mrs.  Richmond,"  I  explained 
stiffly,  "on  a  little  matter  of  business  connected  with, 
the  work  of  the  Village  Improvement  Society.  It  was 
reported  at  our  last  meeting  that  the  condition  of  your 
front  yard  is  very  bad. ' ' 

"My  front  yard!  I  see."  The  doctor  looked  quiz- 
zical but  serene,  and  glanced  out  over  his  shoulder  to 
the  lawn. 

"Our  Association,"  I  continued  bravely,  "aims  to 
incite  the  pride  of  householders  in  the  appearance  of 
the  village  as  well  as  in  their  own  homes;  and  your 
place  here  is  conspicuous,  facing  the  common  as  it 
does.  We  thought  that  might  not  have  occurred  to 
you." 

"It  really  hadn't,"  smiled  my  host.  "This  is  very 
kind  of  you,  however.  Do  I  understand  that  your 
Society  orders  me,  through  you,  to  clear  up  the  yard  ? 
In  that  case,  do  they  provide  cleaners  and  so  forth,— 
or  will  they  perhaps  come  and  take  charge  of  it  them- 
selves?" 

"Not  at  all,"  I  exclaimed  angrily.  "You  are  ex- 
pected to  attend  to  it." 

"What  should  you  do,"  he  inquired  suavely,  "if  I 
left  it  in  disorder?  I  ask  from  curiosity,  naturally, 
as  I  should  never  have  the  temerity  to  defy  so  august 
a  body.    Would  the  law  be  obliged  to  take  its  course  ? ' ' 

"You  are  probably  aware  that  we  have  no  law  what- 
ever behind  us,"  I  said  with  all  the  dignity  I  could  as- 
sume, "though  the  selectmen  are  very  good  about 
backing  us  up  in  flagrant  cases.  But  I  should  imagine 
a  doctor  just  settling  in  a  town  would  be  sufficiently 
alive  to  his  own  interests  to  see  the  propriety  of  mak- 
ing a  good  impression  by  the  appearance  of  his  house 
and  grounds." 

' '  Ah ! ' '  He  nodded  slowly,  smiling  in  a  way  which 
maddened  me.  "Now  I  see.  This  is  a  special  kindness 
on  your  part.  How  grateful  I  am  to  you.  Your  sug- 
gestion may  really  result  in  my  winning  the  hearts 
of  the  West  Hedgeworth  people ;  and  I  shall  begin  at 


THE  DOCTOR'S  FRONT  YARD.  309 

once.  The  propriety  of  making  a  good  impression  by 
the  appearance  of  my  house  and  grounds!— it  is  a 
noble  sentiment.  My  colored  boy  who  is  my  only  ser- 
vant, shall  attend  to  the  matter,  and  the  Village  Im- 
provement Society  shall  see  a  change  indeed.  Are 
there  any  other  little  touches,— extra  touches,  you 
know,— that  occur  to  you?" 

I  glanced  at  the  big,  low  table  with  its  littering  of 
attractive  books  and  magazines,  a  great  ivory  club  of 
a  paper  knife  lying  across  an  uncut  review.  I  was 
as  much  at  home  among  those  things  as  he.  Why  had 
I  been  forced  into  the  attitude  of  an  impertinent  vil- 
lage miss,  to  be  laughed  over  with  his  wife  again  in 
the  way  he  was  laughing  now  ?  The  idea  was  distress- 
ing ;  but  I  had  no  defence. 

''I  think  you  are  quite  capable  of  arranging  your 
own  yard,"  I  said  curtly.  "You  will  very  soon  find 
out  what  the  village  people  like.  All  that  our  Asso- 
ciation requires  is  cleanliness  and  good  order;"— with 
which  I  moved  towards  the  door,  murmuring  a  regret 
that  I  had  not  seen  Mrs.  Eichmond. 

"This  is  so  good  of  you"— and  now  the  doctor  ac- 
tually showed  a  shade  of  embarrassment  himself,— 
"that  I  am  really  overwhelmed  with  shame  to  be 
obliged  to  disappoint  you  about  my  wife.  It  would 
be  so  pleasant  for  her  to  know  you  ladies  and  to"— he 
coughed  slightly— "to  come  under  your  helpful  in- 
fluence. But  the  fact  is,  she  isn't— she  doesn't— there 
never  has— in  short,  there  isn't  any  Mrs.  Richmond. 
My  sister  came  with  me  to  help  me  settle  things.  She 
is  a  college  girl  somewhat  younger  than  I  and  with 
no  experience  whatever.  I  hope  you  will  be  willing  to 
welcome  her  when  she  comes  back  in  July,— that  is, 
of  course,  if  we  are  tidy  enough  to  be  recognized  by 
the  villagers."  Still  the  blandest  expression  about 
his  mouth,  but  a  twinkle  in  the  gray  eyes  which  made 
me  grind  my  teeth.  And  he  had  calmly  sat  there, 
letting  me  call  on  him! 

I  attempted  to  "sweep"  across  the  piazza  with  dig- 


310  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

nity,  but  only  swept  up  little  bits  of  excelsior  on  the 
hem  of  my  gown.  But  I  did  make  him  feel  the  ar- 
rows of  a  dignified  wrath,  I  think;— not  that  he 
evinced  any  such  sensation  at  the  time.  To  Mrs.  Bun- 
ker, who  had  asked  for  a  prompt  report,  I  flew.  She 
took  the  affair  with  unsympathetic  calmness. 

' '  You  did  your  duty,  Irene, ' '  was  her  gracious  com- 
mendation, ''and  it  was  not  your  fault  that  the  girl 
—who  certainly  was  there,  for  I  satv  her— should  be 
his  sister  and  not  his  wife.  You  said  precisely  the 
right  thing,  and  I  trust  he  will  profit  by  it  and  earn 
the  respect  of  the  village.  I  am  glad  he  is  a  young 
man  of  taste," 

He  got  on,  whether  possessed  of  taste  or  not.  It 
annoyed  me  to  see  the  way  he  made  friends  with 
everybody  who  crossed  his  path,  man,  woman  or  child. 
They  were  rather  slow  to  consult  him  professionally ; 
but  Doctor  Bell,  the  old  physician  who  had  all  the 
practice  round  here,  lives  at  Hedgeworth  Centre,  three 
miles  away,  so  when  Miss  Phoebe  Withers,  Miss 
Maria's  older  sister,  had  an  attack  of  heart  failure  one 
day,  they  sent  for  Doctor  Richmond,  and  took  a  tre- 
mendous fancy  to  him.  I  kept  out  of  his  way;  to  my 
mind  he  was  the  most  thoroughly  disagreeable  man  I 
ever  met. 

The  front  yard,  meanwhile,  had  been  cleared  up. 
Nick,  the  black  imp  who  drove,  cooked  and  gardened 
for  the  doctor,  was  known  to  be  mysteriously  occupied 
behind  the  house  for  hours  at  a  time,  after  the  rub- 
bish was  removed.  Mrs.  Benjamin  saw  it  all  from 
her  back  windows,  and  reported  it  at  the  sewing  so- 
ciety. He  spent  hours  pottering  among  paint-cans, 
starting  seeds  and  what  not;  and  shortly  after,  the 
front  fence  appeared  painted  grass  green,  the  gate 
picked  out  wdth  white  cross-bars,  and  the  lamp-post 
similarly  decorated,  bearing  a  brand-new  reflector. 
Then  clam-shell  borders  to  the  gravel-walk  cropped 
out,  and  two  round  clam-edged  beds  of  geraniums 
stared  from  the  lawn,  while  a  "rockery"  of  red  and 


THE  DOCTOR'S  FRONT  YARD.  311 

blue  boulders,  with  ferns,  reared  itself  where  the  piles 
of  tin  cans  had  been. 

''Do  you  like  that  sort  of  thing,  I  want  to  know?"  I 
inquired  wrathfully  of  Mrs.  Bunker  at  our  next  Vil- 
lage Improvement  meeting. 

"Well,  it  looks  perfectly  neat,"  she  answered,  "and 
it  is  in  the  style  of  most  of  the  best  kept  yards  here. 
I  can't  say  that  I  should  not  prefer  quieter  colors; 
but  he  is  a  young  man  yet,  you  know. ' ' 

I  was  silenced.  "What  right  had  I,  any  way,  to  feel 
as  if  there  were  a  sort  of  practical  joke  on  me,  per- 
sonally, in  all  this  ?  The  day  after,  a  new  ornament 
appeared;— a  pair  of  andirons,  painted  scarlet,  and 
a  hollowed  out  log  across  them  filled  with  yellow  nas- 
turtiums. Mrs,  Pitman  pointed  it  out  to  me  delight- 
edly. 

"Just  like  a  real  fire!"  she  said.  "Do  you  see, 
Irene?  The  doctor  is  quite  a  landscape  gardener, 
isn  't  he  ? "    I  made  no  reply. 

Another  decoration  was  set  forth  next,  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  yard;— this  time  a  crane,  also  of 
scarlet  hue,  and  a  swinging  pot,  with  money-wort  bub- 
bling in  it  and  dribbling  down  the  sides.  By  ill  luck 
I  was  passing  at  the  moment  when  Nick  put  it  there, 
turning  round  with  a  grin  for  the  approval  of  his  mas- 
ter, who  stood  in  the  window. 

"Very  good,  indeed,  Nick,"  I  heard  the  doctor  call 
out.  "You're  a  regular  Village  Improvement  Society 
in  yourself,  boy."  I  wondered  if  it  were  possible,  by 
Delsartian  methods,  to  throw  scorn  into  the  expres- 
sion of  one's  back.  The  attempt  ended  weakly  in  one 
of  those  little  conscious  adjustments  of  drapery  to 
which  one  resorts  involuntarily  at  such  junctures. 
Somehow  I  felt  that  those  gray  eyes  were  upon  me.  I 
had  occasionally  caught  the  expression  of  them  before, 
always  with  the  inevitable  twinkle,  when  we  met  in 
public. 

He  grew  into  the  habit  of  dropping  in  at  the  Bun- 
kers', to  my  disgust,  as  it  spoiled  my  own  intimacy 


312  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

there.  ]\Ir.  B.,  a  shadowy  figure  in  the  background  of 
the  family  stage,  had  been  cured,  or  imagined  he  had, 
of  rheumatism  by  the  new  physician,  and  took  a  great 
fancy  to  him.  Emily,  the  daughter,  who  is  so  fearful- 
ly quiet  that  most  people  never  make  any  attempt  to 
rouse  her,  was  actually  known  to  chat  Avith  him  quite 
naturally  and  easily;  and  our  beloved  president  sub- 
mitted to  cruel  thrusts  from  him  with  a  good  grace. 

"Mrs.  Bunker,"  he  said  one  evening  as  we  were  all 
sitting  on  the  piazza  in  a  June  twilight,  "you've 
never  told  me  yet  how  you  liked  the  arrangement  of 
my  front  yard.  Have  you  seen  the  new  garden  seat  I 
had  put  out  this  week?  It's  one  of  the  latest  fads  in 
outdoor  decoration,  made  of  the  head-board  and  frame 
of  an  antique  bedstead— a  very  choice  thing.  I  got 
the  idea  from  a  farmhouse  up  on  the  north  road. 

'  *  I  haven 't  noticed  it, ' '  she  answered  somewhat  cau- 
tiously, "but  I  observe,  doctor,  that  you  have  an  idea 
of  falling  in  with  the  taste  of  the  people." 

"My  dear  madam,"  he  clasped  his  hand  round  one 
knee  and  looked  off  dreamily  into  space,— "a  doctor 
just  settling  down  in  a  tovm.  should  be  sufficiently 
alive  to  his  own  interests  to  see  the  propriety  of  mak- 
ing a  good  impression  by  the  appearance  of  his  house 
and  grounds." 

How  dared  he  mock  me  to  my  very  face  in  this  fash- 
ion ?  I  was  thankful  for  the  little  back  gate  leading 
out  of  the  Bunkers'  grounds,  by  which  I  could  get  a 
short  cut  home,  leaving  my  good-byes  with  Emily 
Bunker.  "When  we  met  accidentally  at  the  postoffice 
next  morning,  I  turned  my  back  on  him  to  stamp  some 
letters,  and  never  looked  up  till  he  was  gone,  after 
telling  Alice  Cobb,  one  of  the  village  belles,  who  stood 
there,  that  he  was  going  away  in  the  afternoon  to  his 
sister's  Commencement  and  would  bring  her  back 
with  him. 

The  week  seemed  very  peaceful,  and  I  enjoyed  go- 
ing about  without  the  dread  of  further  shafts  of  ridi- 
cule.   I  was  always  planning  some  way  to  give  his  im- 


THE  DOCTOR'S  FRONT  YARD.  313 

pertinence  a  decided  snub,  but  never  found  the 
chance.  The  afternoon  of  his  return,  I  was  sitting 
with  my  work  in  Mrs.  Benjamin's  parlor  as  the  buggy 
drove  up,  Nick  having  been  left  to  walk  home  from 
the  station.  When  he  helped  the  sister  out,— a  mani- 
festly high  bred,  charming  little  blonde,— I  couldn't 
help  watching  for  the  effect  upon  her  of  those  painted 
monstrosities.  She  wouldn't  tolerate  them  a  moment, 
I  felt  sure.  But  oh,  stab  after  stab !  She  gave  one 
glance  at  them  and  turned  to  her  brother  with  an 
expression  of  such  utter  merriment  that  I  knew  at 
once  the  thing  was  a  joke  already  understood  between 
the  two.  I  decided  that  Amy  Richmond  would  not 
become  a  friend  of  mine.  Yet  curiously  enough  she 
actually  sought  me  out,  at  an  academy  reception  the 
next  night.  Emily  Bunker  introduced  her,  and  she 
began  at  once :  "  I  've  been  so  anxious  to  meet  you,  Miss 
Allison.  Morris  tells  me  so  much  about  you,  and  he's 
sure  we  shall  be  congenial." 

I  stiffened.  Another  back-handed  thrust,  probably, 
lay  underneath  this. 

''He  thinks  I  shall  learn  an  immense  amount  from 
you,  too,"  she  pursued,— "don't  you  Morris?"— to 
the  doctor,  who  was  unexpectedly  standing  behind  me. 

"  I  've  told  my  sister, ' '  he  answered,  ' '  that  she  must 
persuade  you  to  give  her  some  hints  about  household 
matters.  She  hasn't  had  even  as  much  experience  yet 
as  Nick  and  I." 

I  tried  to  be  very  ungracious,  as  dark  suspicions 
flew  through  my  mind ;  but  Miss  Richmond  looked  ab- 
solutely guileless,  and  furthermore  she  wouldn't  let 
me  alone ;  there  was  no  use  trying  to  avoid  her.  And 
it  did  seem  good  to  have  a  friend  of  her  sort.  The 
West  Hedgeworth  girls  are  bright  and  pretty,  and 
some  of  them  intellectual,  but  we  had  all  been  village 
comrades  too  long  to  get  up  much  enthusiasm  over  one 
another's  society.  Doctor  Richmond's  brotherly  de- 
votion caused  him  to  lend  his  sister  the  buggy  and 
spirited  little  Tiorse  for  her  own  use  now  and  then. 


314  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

besides  the  drives  she  took  with  him;  so  we  two  en- 
joyed long  excursions  through  the  country  roads, 
steeped  in  July  sunshine  and  finding  our  mutual  in- 
terest deeper  with  every  day.  Once  I  went  to  tea  with 
them,  and  on  that  occasion  the  doctor  seemed  quite 
like  other  people,  except  just  as  I  was  leaving  under 
the  escort  of  my  younger  brother,  which  I  had  pur- 
posely arranged,  the  temptation  to  give  me  a  parting 
thrust  was  too  strong  for  him,  and  he  remarked  as  we 
descended  the  front  steps:  "Miss  Allison,  I  am  so 
glad  to  have  -had  you  get  a  glimpse  of  our  clam-shells 
in  the  moonlight." 

Amy  went  off  to  the  seashore  a  day  or  two  later,  and 
I  felt  really  sorry  for  him,  but  it  was  much  the  easiest 
way  to  avoid  him  altogether,  and  I  never  asked  him 
to  come  to  our  house,  nor  crossed  his  path  if  I  could 
help  it.  As  for  the  nasturtiums  and  geraniums, 
scorching  on  his  lawn  in  the  midsummer  heat,  I  want- 
ed no  sight  of  them.  By  and  by  I  went  away  myself, 
and  came  back  in  September  to  a  taste  of  the  unpleas- 
antnesses of  life.  My  two  brothers  left  home,  one  to  a 
business  position  in  Boston,  the  other  to  college. 
Father,  meanwhile,  who  for  eight  years  since  mother's 
death  had  been  lost  in  melancholy  and  required  my 
constant  offices  as  consoler,  divulged  the  fact  that  a 
buxom  widow  in  Hedgeworth  Centre  had  succeeded  in 
resurrecting  his  buried  affections;  an  individual  as 
utterly  unlike— well,  there  was  a  sting  about  it  all 
that  made  things  look  pretty  black  for  awhile,  and 
since  they  desired  the  engagement  "kept  quiet,"  I 
locked  up  my  woes  and  could  only  wonder  now  and 
then  whether  anybody  felt  any  sympathy,  while  par- 
rying the  usual  village  questions  «bout  father's  fre- 
quent drives  to  the  Centre,  The  Bunkers  went  abroad 
for  the  winter,  thank  Heaven!— -and  the  V,  I,  S.  was 
suspended  for  the  time  being.  Mercifully  I  had  a 
chance  to  do  -something  for  somebody  else.  Aunt 
Abby,  my  mother's  sister,  who  had  lived  alone  with 
her  servants  in  a  big  house  fronting  the  common,  a 


THE  DOCTOR'S  FRONT  YARD.  315 

rather  morose  and  unmanageable  old  maiden  lady, 
was  breaking  down.  My  other  aunt,  who  lives  in  Cal- 
ifornia, could  not  come  east  at  once,  so  I  was  the  only 
member  of  the  family  to  nurse  her,  and  with  father 
and  the  boys  provided  for  I  had  time  to  go  to  her 
whenever  she  needed  me. 

Dr.  BeU  fell  ill  and  Dr.  Richmond  was  called.  His 
appearance  in  the  sick-room  seemed  likely  to  destroy 
the  only  comfort  I  had  there ;  but,  strange  to  say,  I 
laid  down  my  weapons  before  three  visits  were  over. 
His  management  of  her  was  absolutely  perfect; 
thoughtful,  gentle,  cheery,  and  so  patient  with  her 
whims  and  imaginings,  poor  old  soul,  that  his  coming 
grew  to  be  the  one  bright  spot  in  her  life,  and  I  fan- 
cied she  would  give  herself  up  to  complete  invalidism 
for  the  sake  of  them.  But  he  looked  grave  one  day 
over  her,  and  informed  me  she  must  have  a  nurse. 

"Do  you  think  me  incapable?"  I  asked  rather 
sharply. 

"No,  but  you  couldn't  hold  out  to  do  all  there  is  to 
be  done.  Your  aunt  is  going  to  be  worse,  Miss  Allison, 
and  I  doubt  if  we  can  pull  her  through.  You'll  want 
somebody  for  night  work." 

Mrs.  Smith,  the  village  nurse,  is  the  dreariest  of  her 
kind,  and  brings  an  atmosphere  of  melancholy  with 
her.  My  services  were  needed  as  cheerer-up  from  this 
time  on,  for  poor  Aunt  Abby  grew  visibly  weaker,  and 
finally  one  stormy  night  the  end  seemed  near,  so  I  did 
not  go  home.  Dr.  Richmond  came  in  about  nine  o'clock 
and  found  me  in  the  cold,  lofty  parlor  with  its  straight 
backed  furniture  and  grim  family  portraits. 

* '  See  here, ' '  he  remarked  as  he  returned  from  the 
sick-room,  "mightn't  you  be  a  little  more  comfortable 
somehow  ?  You  can 't  sit  up  all  night  on  the  edge  of  a 
slippery  sofa  like  that.  Why  don't  you  doze,  and  let 
the  nurse  call  if  she  wants  you  ? ' ' 

I  had  unconsciously  taken  the  attitude  of  my  child- 
hood's years,  when  sent  to  call  on  Aunt  Abby  and 
charged  not  to  let  my  feet  touch  the  furniture,  my 


316  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

hands  crossed  in  my  lap,  and  spine  rigid.  But  I 
couldn  't  have  slept  at  any  rate,  I  told  him,  and  should 
manage  all  right. 

He  opened  the  front  door  to  depart,  then  came  back. 
A  West  Indian  tornado  was  tearing  at  the  house  and 
lashing  the  trees  with  howls  of  fury,  the  chimneys 
moaning  and  blinds  rattling.  He  looked  at  me  irreso- 
lutely, I  sitting  motionless.  What  did  a  mere  storm 
matter,— a  tumult  of  nature  which  would  be  over  by 
morning?  He  might  object  to  it,  with  nothing  worse 
to  worry  about ;  it  made  no  difference  to  me. 

"I  must  be  on  hand  every  hour,  anyway,"  he  said 
slowly,  ''to  watch  your  aunt's  pulse.  Neither  you  nor 
the  nurse  would  understand  it.  If  you  don't  mind, 
I  '11  stay  here,  instead  of  coming  back  and  forth  across 
the  common  in  such  a  gale  as  this.  And  meanwhile  let 
me  show  you  a  better  way  to  rest." 

Poor  Aunt  Abby !  It  was  fortunate  that  she  could 
not  see  her  plush  sofa  moved  around  cornerwise  and 
its  end  filled  with  pillows,  nor  the  logs  which  the  doc- 
tor brought  from  the  cellar  piled  across  her  beauti- 
fully polished,  unused  andirons.  Had  I  any  business 
to  sink  back  luxuriously  and  enjoy  the  sparkle  and 
warmth  of  a  fire,  with  that  unconscious  figure  in  the 
next  room  ?  I  sprang  up  again  and  tiptoed  in  to  ask 
the  nurse  if  I  might  not  take  her  place. 

''No,"  said  Mrs.  Smith  dolorously  but  firmly,  ''you 
ain't  experienced  enough  to  watch  out  her  last  hours. 
Miss  Abby's  been  good  to  me  in  ways  I  sha'n't  say 
nothin'  about,  and  I'm  a-goin'  to  see  her  through.  All 
I  want  you  for  is  to  call  if  I  need  you,  and  so  long  as 
I  ain  't  all  alone  I  shall  stay  up  till  the  last. ' ' 

I  crept  back,  feeling  incompetent  and  useless,  and 
with  some  of  the  diminished  nerve  which  results  from 
the  nearness  and  certainty  of  death— that  hour  we  are 
never  ready  for. 

"Lie  against  the  cushions,  please,"  commanded  the 
doctor  quietly.  ' '  Now  I  'm  going  to  be  here  and  watch 
every  symptom.    You  won't  have  to  keep  anything  on 


THE  DOCTOR'S  FRONT  YARD.  317 

your  mind,— and  your  aunt  may  rally,  remember, 
perhaps  even  return  to  consciousness  again.  Just  put 
the  responsibility  entirely  on  Mrs.  Smith  and  me,  and 
try  to  rest  as  much  as  you  can. ' ' 

There  was  no  resisting  this ;  he  should  not  see,  how- 
ever, that  my  eyes  grew  moist  under  the  unwonted 
sensation  of  being  looked  out  for.  I  turned  my  head 
away  to  pull  my  forces  together,  but  he  had  gone  back 
to  Aunt  Abby's  bedside.  When  he  came  out,  in  about 
five  minutes,  he  told  me  that  all  was  going  well,  and 
then  sitting  down  began  to  speak  of  everyday  matters. 
Before  very  long  a  better  footing  Avas  established  be- 
tween us  than  ever  before,  and  for  a  couple  of  hours 
we  talked,  only  interrupted  by  visits  to  the  sick-room. 
I  forgot  my  secret  smart  at  having  been  ridiculed,  in 
hearing  Morris  Richmond  tell  delightful  bits  of  his 
own  experiences  and  life  interest.  Not  being  enough 
of  a  woman  of  the  world  to  resist  the  delicate  flattery 
which  such  a  recital  implies,  I  didn't  suspect  him 
either  of  adroitness  enough  to  use  his  autobiography 
for  that  purpose.  But  about  twelve  o'clock  he  looked 
at  his  watch,  then  at  me,  and  frowned. 

"You're  horribly  tired,"  he  said,  "and  I've  no  busi- 
ness to  keep  you  up  when  it  isn't  necessary.  Please 
go  upstairs  to  bed,  and  sleep  till  four  o'clock.  I  shall 
be  here  till  then,  and  there  will  be  absolutely  nothing 
for  you  to  do.  If  your  aunt  is  improving,  you  needn't 
be  called  till  seven,  for  you  can  take  Mrs.  Smith's 
place  tomorrow,  and  Mrs.  Benjamin  will  come  over  to 
help  you  if  you  need  her." 

Evidently  he  himself  was  tired  of  talking  so  long. 
I  didn't  give  him  credit  for  any  especially  disinter- 
ested motives  in  sending  me  off,  but  went  with  some 
resentment,  since  he  so  plainly  wished  me  to  go.  I 
didn't  sleep,  however.  The  mirror  on  the  wall  of  the 
barren  guest  room  moved  from  some  hidden  draught 
or  jar,  the  old  willow  whipped  its  twigs  against  the 
window  panes,  and  I  lay  watching  them  with  a  strange 
tumult  in  my  heart,  a  whirlwind  of  whys  and  conjee- 


318  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

tures,  a  creeping  nervousness  as  to  the  outcome  of  the 
next  few  hours,  a  lonely  dread  of  the  after  months 
when  Aunt  Abby  should  be  gone  and  my  home  life 
changed,— and  yet,  through  it  all,  an  odd  new  satis- 
faction which  I  tried  to  push  away,  and  a  tendency  to 
go  over  word  for  word  the  talk  of  that  evening  and 
the  looks  on  Morris  Richmond's  face.  There  was  a 
faint  dawn  in  the  room  before  I  knew  it,  and  then  it 
occurred  to  me  that  the  doctor  ought  to  have  a  little 
breakfast  after  his  long  vigil.  The  servants  were 
asleep,  but  the  kitchen  fire  had  been  left  "in,"  and  I 
knew  where  everj^thing  was  kept.  I  freshened  myself 
up  and  stole  down  the  back  stairs  to  cook  coffee  and 
eggs  and  hot  toast.  In  the  midst  of  it  the  door  opened 
behind  me,  and  I  started  guiltily. 

"What  are  you  doing  now?"  he  demanded. 

"How  did  you  know?"  I  faltered. 

"The  smell  of  that  coffee  going  all  through  the 
house  is  enough  to  wake  anybody.  So  this  is  the  way 
you  obey  orders !  Miss  TV  est  is  better,  and  I  am  just 
going.    You  might  perfectly  well  have  slept  on." 

"But  I  couldn't,"  I  insisted,  "and  you  will  stay 
and  drink  the  coffee  now  that  I  have  cooked  it." 

He  consented  if  I  would  have  some  too,  and  we  ate 
our  impromptu  meal  in  the  dark  dining-room,  warm- 
ing up  over  it  and  chatting  most  familiarly.  It  was 
growing  light  when  the  doctor  took  his  hat  in  the  hall. 

"Thank  you  for  being  so  good  to  me,"  he  said.  "I 
appreciate  it.  Now  please  don't  overdo.  I  sha'n't  be 
in  again  probably  until  noon,  unless  you  send  for 
me;"— and  he  opened  the  door,  where  we  both  stood 
looking  out.  We  were  just  opposite  his  house.  The 
storm  was  abating,  but  the  havoc  it  had  made  was  vis- 
ible everywhere.  A  big  elm  had  been  uprooted  on  the 
common,  and  lay  prone,  with  hundreds  of  scattered 
twigs  about  it.  And  the  doctor 's  front  yard  ?  Alas ! 
Mrs.  Benjamin's  old  buttonwood  tree,  which  had  been 
dying  all  summer,  was  crashed  over,  burying  in  its 
prostrate  branches  the  crane,  the  andirons,  the  gay 


THE  DOCTOR'S  FRONT  YARD.  319 

beds  and  all.  Nature  itself  had  swept  away  the  last 
barriers  now,  I  reflected  triumphantly,  to  what  might 
be  a  good  satisfactory  friendship.  Better  days  were 
coming.    But— 

' '  Whew ! ' '  said  my  companion  lightly.  '  'Look  over 
there.  Dear  me— I  must  hurry  home  and  set  Nick  at 
work.  It  will  take  us  a  whole  week  to  get  square  with 
the  Village  Improvement  Society!" 

Aunt  Abby  lived  nearly  a  month  longer.  Her  sis- 
ter came  on  from  California  and  took  charge  in  the 
sick-room  with  an  energy  which  left  very  little  for 
others  to  do.  After  the  funeral  she  went  away  again. 
The  property  had  been  left  to  her,  the  house  to  me, 
with  just  enough  income  to  live,  economically,  in  it. 
Father  and  his  affianced  bride  were  well  satisfied  with 
this  arrangement,  and  made  preparations  to  be  mar- 
ried at  Thanksgiving,  at  which  time  I  was  to  move  into 
my  new  abode.  I  felt  it  to  be  following  indeed  in 
Aunt  Abby's  footsteps,  and  could  see  myself  in  imag- 
ination going  on  year  after  year  with  my  one  servant, 
growing  older  and  grimmer,  brooding  over  past  days, 
finally  slipping  out  of  life  wdthout  a  friend  in  the 
world.  It  was  rather  a  new  thing  for  me  to  take  this 
morbid  view,  but  one  always  finds  a  fresh  idea  inter- 
esting, and  I  hugged  it  for  a  time  with  all  the  vehem- 
ence of  my  nature.  The  doctor  I  had  seen  now  and 
then,  and  we  had  managed  to  remain  pretty  well  on 
our  new  basis  of  easy  and  even  confidential  acquaint- 
anceship. But  I  could  not  forget  the  old  grudge ;  he 
would  not  keep  up  that  spirit  of  mockery  which 
cropped  out  so  often  unless  he  regarded  me  still  as  a 
village  nonenity.    Yet  why  need  I  care? 

One  November  afternoon  I  started  out  to  walk  off 
the  blues.  It  was  gray  and  windy,  but  with  occasional 
gleams  of  sunshine,— a  good  day  for  a  hilltop.  I  went 
by  the  Bunkers'  shut  up  mansion,  waved  to  Miss 
Maria  at  her  little  corner  sitting-room  window,  shook 
my  head  to  resist  Mrs.  Benjamin's  beckoning  hand  as 
I  passed  her  •door,  and  glanced  at  the  doctor's  yard. 


320  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

It  was  in  order  again  indeed.  The  mutilated  crane 
and  andirons  had  been  removed,  and  the  beds  emptied 
and  raked  over;  but  a  new  horror  had  been  perpetra- 
ted in  the  shape  of  two  brilliant  globular  lawn-reflect- 
ors on  pedestals,  one  blue-gray,  the  other  yellow,  which 
gave  a  miniature  distorted  panorama  of  all  passing 
objects  and  showed  me  a  waddling  image  of  myself, 
with  flattened,  wrathful  countenance.  It  was  the  last 
straw,  and  I  walked  fiercely  away,  resolved  that  if  my 
future  dwelling  must  be  opposite  this  man's,  its  front 
blinds  should  be  lowered  forever. 

As  that  walk  registered  just  about  the  lowest  point 
my  mental  and  spiritual  barometer  has  ever  reached, 
I  can  hardly  forget  it.  I  climbed  over  Hart 's  hill,  and 
from  its  summit  looked  off  westward  over  level  fields, 
bounded  by  a  horizon  of  tossing  gray  clouds  and  slits 
of  pale,  yellow  light.  The  old  graveyard  lay  to  the 
right,  smooth  bare  maple  boughs  tossed  above  me.  The 
road  ran  straight  ahead,  and  I  stood  undecided  wheth- 
er to  go  on  down  or  not.  If  it  had  been  in  a  story,  I 
reflected  bitterly,  the  man  I  hated  yet  longed  to  see 
would  appear  then  and  there ;  in  real  life  such  things 
never  happen  at  the  right  juncture.  I  should  simply 
go  back,  give  father  his  tea,  and  see  him  depart  as 
usual  for  the  evening,  then  sit  alone. 

But,  after  all,  this  is  a  story,  or  I  shouldn't  be  tell- 
ing it.  A  buggy  turned  out  of  the  farm-yard  half  way 
down  the  hill,  and  came  toward  me.  I  knew  the  horse 
and  occupant,  and  turned  my  feet  resolutely  home- 
ward, with  a  confusion  in  my  brain  which  I  thought 
was  anger.  A  rapid  trot  sounded  behind  me,  and  then 
the  doctor's  ''Whoa!"  I  did  not  look  up  till  I  heard 
him  say:  "Miss  Allison,  would  you  please  let  me  drive 
you  home  1 ' ' 

' '  I  came  out  for  a  walk, ' '  I  answered. 

**Yes,  but  you've  had  the  walk.  And  besides  that, 
you  are  more  by  yourself  nowadays  than  is  good  for 
you."  What  business  was  it  of  his?— ''Then,  best  of 
all,  I  have  a  letter  from  Amy  to  read  you." 


I 


THE  DOCTOR'S  FRONT  YARD.  321 

''Oh,  I  don't  suppose  it  matters,"  said  I,  climbing 
wearily  in  beside  him,  "only  please  have  the  goodness 
not  to  drive  me  past  your  house.  The  prospect  of  look- 
ing at  it  morning,  noon  and  night  hereafter  is  bad 
enough  since  this  latest  infliction." 

"Infliction !  do  you  really  think  so?"  he  asked,  with 
the  old  merriment  in  his  voice.  "But  I  had  to  put 
something  there,  you  know,  to  brighten  it  up  a  little. 
You  certainly  would  have  me  sufficiently  alive  to  my 
own  interests  as  a  physician,  wouldn't  you,  to  see  the 
propriety — " 

"Stop!"  I  burst  out,  my  cheeks  one  flame  and  the 
hot  tears  of  tired-out  nerves  and  pent-up  anger  spring- 
ing to  my  eyes.  "Be  kind  enough  to  understand  that 
for  your  interests  as  a  physician  I  don't  care  one 
straw ! ' ' 

The  Doctor  turned  and  laid  his  hand  gently  on  mine, 
looking  down  at  me  with  a  smile  which  levelled  all  my 
fortifications. 

"Of  course  you  don't,"  he  said,  "But  as  a  man— 
you  surely  must  have  seen  by  this  time  how  badly  I 
need  a  wife!  Won't  you  come  home  and  take  com- 
mand of  my  front  yard?" 

Ruth  Huntington  Sessions. 

2—21 


XXI 

A  GENTLE  MANIAC 

a  stttdy  in  love  and  insanitt. 
characters. 

Mr.  Valdingam. 

Henry  Van  Hyde,  M.  D. 

Susan  Valdingam. 

Rose. 

Richard,  a  servant. 

Time  :    Present. 

Place:   Mr.   Valdingam 's  country  place  near  New- 
York. 
Scene:    Library  in  Mr.  Valdingam's  house.    At  the 
right  of  the  stage,  there  is  a  large  window  opening 
upon  a  veranda  and  garden;  moonlight  effect.    At 
the  left  there  is  an  exit  to  other  parts  of  the  house. 
Mr.  Valdingam  (who  is  pacing  the  room  restlessly) : 
Dr.  Van  Hyde  is  extremely  inconsiderate— extremely 
inconsiderate.     He  promised  to  be  here  at  six-thirty 
sharp.    A  physician  should  keep  his  word  at  all  haz- 
ards.   (Me  goes  to  his  desk  at  right  and  rings  a  hell.) 

(Enter  Richard  from  left.) 

Richard:    You  rang,  sir? 

Mr.  Valdingam  (testily) :  When  does  the  next  train 
leave  for  New  York  ? 

Richard  :    In  a  half  hour,  sir. 

Mr.  Valdingam:  Good.  If  Dr.  Van  Hyde  does 
not  arrive  Avithin  that  time,  you  will  take  the  train  and 
fetch  him.    Do  you  understand  ? 

Richard  :    Yes,  sir. 

Mr.  Valdingam  :    Meanwhile,  tell  my  sister  that  I 

(322) 


A  GENTLE  MANIAC.  323 

want  to  speak  with  her,  (Exit  Richaed,  l.)  Now  I'll 
surprise  that  excellent  woman ;  excellent,  that  is  to  say, 
if  she  possessed  an  ounce  of  brains.  If  she  could  have 
her  way,  Rose  would  soon  be  in  a  lunatic  asylum. 

(Enter  Susan,  l.) 

Susan  (curtly) :   You  have  something  to  say  to  me  ? 

IVIr.  Valdestgam  (sharply) :    Get  ready  a  supper  for 
two— for  tivo— do  you  hear? 

Susan  :    For  two  ? 

Mr.  Valdingam  :    And  you  can  serve  it  in  this  room. 

Susan  :    You  are  expecting  a  friend  ? 

Mr.  Valdingam  :  Yes,  a  friend ;  or,  rather  a  physi- 
cian—a physician  .  ,  .  for  Rose. 

Susan  (aside):  The  same  old  delusion  (To  Mr. 
Valdingam.)    But,  brother,  Rose  is  quite  well. 

Mr.  Valdingam :    Well!    You  say  we iL^     .     . 
It's  none  of  your  business,  however.    Do  as  I  bid. 

Susan  (aside):  It's  useless  to  argue  with  him.  (To 
Mr.  Valdingam.)    When  do  you  expect  your— friend  ? 

Mr.  Valdingam  :  By  the  train  that  was  due  several 
minutes  ago.    Late,  as  usual. 

(Enter  Richard,  h.) 
Richard  :    The  doctor  has  just  arrived,  sir. 
Mr.  Valdingam  :    Good.  Bring  the  lamps,  and  then 
show  the  doctor  in. 

Susan  (aside) :  That  doctor  may  be  useful,  after  all. 

(Exeunt  Richard  and  Susan.^ 

Mr. Valdingam  ( exultingly ) :  Ha!  I've  gained  ray 
point,  in  spite  of  them.    Rose  shall  be  saved. 
(Enter,  l.,  Richard,  luith  iivo  lighted  lamps.    After 

placing  them,  he  retires,  leaving  Dr.  Van  Hyde  in 

the  hackground.) 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    This  is  Mr.  Valdingam  ? 

Mr.  Valdingam  :  And  this  Dr.  Van  Hyde  ?  How 
delighted  I  am  to  meet  you  at  last  1  But  it  is  disgrace- 
ful that  you  should  have  been  so  long  delayed.  I  shall 
see  to  it  that  the  officers  of  the  road  are  severely  cen- 
sured. 


324  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde:  Pray  do  not  worry  over  such  a 
trifle. 

Me.  Valdingam  :  That  is  very  nicely  said,  sir.  .  . 
.  .  As  I  informed  you  by  letter,  the  ease  which  you 
are  about  to  treat  is  a  very  serious  one — a  very  com- 
plicated one.  It  may  even  baffle  you.  .  .  .  But 
before  I  add  anything,  permit  me  to  see  my  sister  for 
an  instant.  She  is  preparing  a  little  supper  for  us, 
and,  if  you  don't  object,  we  shall  eat  it  here,  tete-a- 
tete. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde:  With  the  greatest  pleasure.  Mr. 
Valdingam. 

Mr.  Valdingam:  Then  kindly  make  yourself  at 
home.  The  house  is  yours  while  you  are  in  it.  (Exit 
Mr.  Valdingam,  l.) 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (throwing  himself  into  an  easy- 
chair)  :  A  comfortable  place,  certainly.  That  fellow, 
Valdingam,  however,  is  an  odd  chap.  Restless  and  ex- 
citable, I  take  it;  but  very  agreeable,  otherwise.  I 
wonder  what  sort  of  a  little  creature  the  patient  is,  by 
the  way.  A  stupid  thing,  I  suppose.  .  .  .  (After 
a  moment  of  reflection.)  Strange !— I  wonder  if  I  am 
losing  my  own  mind.  For  three  days  I've  been  in  a 
state  which  is  positively  abnormal.  I  am  haunted  by  a 
face,  and  I  can't  rid  my  memory  of  it.  And  what  a 
face !  Who  could  forget  it  after  having  once  looked  up- 
on it  ?  I  am  in  love  with  it.  I  am  still  more  in  love 
w'ith  its  owner.  That  smile,  like  a  glimpse  of  paradise ! 
That  mouth,  like  a  dissected  strawberry !  That  blush, 
like  the  stolen  red  of  a  rose !  Oh,  shall  I  ever  see  her 
again  ? 

(Enter  Mr.  Valdingam,  h.) 

Mr.  Valdingam:  You  must  be  hungry,  Dr.  Van 
Hyde,  and  I  fear  that  I  can  offer  you  little  to  appease 
a  healthy  appetite— a  bowl  of  broth,  a  tender  bit  of 
broiled  chicken,  and  some  of  the  finest  Burgundy  in 
the  world  to  w^ash  it  down.  We  homely  folk  of  the 
country  stick  to  the  ancient  fashions,  you  know,— a 
noonday  lunch,  and  all  that. 


A  GENTLE  MANIAC.  325 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :  I  like  your  ancient  fashions,  as  you 
call  them,  Mr.  Valdingam.  (Enter  Richard,  who  sets 
a  small  table  for  tivo  and  serves  supper.) 

Mr.  Valdingam  :  Then  let  us  sit  down  without  cer- 
emony. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :  Your  Burgundy  is  indeed  delicious, 
Mr.  Valdingam. 

Mr.  Valdingam  :  I  flatter  myself  that  it  is.  It  dis- 
solves the  cobwebs  from  one's  brains,  so  to  speak.  It 
is  the  elixir  of  happiness ;  and  alas !  I  am  not  a  happy 
man,  Dr.  Van  Hyde.  .  .  (To  Richard.^  Leave  us 
alone,  Richard.    (Exit  Richard.^ 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :  Perhaps  you  exaggerate  your  mis- 
fortunes, my  dear  sir. 

Mr.  Valdingam  :  Far  from  it— far  from  it.  .  .  . 
Imagine  a  father,  a  doting  father,  like  myself,  whose 
only  child  is  on  the  verge  of  insanity. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :  It  is  a  pitiful  case,  truly. 

Mr.  Valdingam  :  It  is  pitiful,  and  it  is  strange ; 
strange  because  my  daughter  Rose  is,  to  all  outward 
appearances,  as  sane  as  you  or  I. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    But  there  are  symptoms—' 

Mr.  Valdingam:  Symptoms  which  my  keen  sight 
discovered  long  ago.  (Mysteriously.)  My  daughter 
is  morally  irresponsible  in  her  social  relations  with 
men. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    You  astonish  me ! 

Mr.  Valdingam  :  Prepare  yourself  for  still  greater 
astonishment.  Accustomed  though  you  are  to  dealings 
with  the  insane,  I  venture  to  say  that  Rose  will  deceive 
you  at  first  as  she  has  deceived  others.  .  .  .  How- 
ever, you  are  now  on  your  guard.  If  you  will  permit 
me  to  do  so,  I  will  indicate  to  you  the  line  of  inquiry 
which  you  may  adopt  in  your  preliminary  examination 
of  my  daughter. 
(As  this  conversation  progresses   the    door   at   l.   is 

opened  slightly,  and  Susan  is  seen  to  he  listening. 

Later  she  closes  the  door  softly  and  disappears.) 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    With  pleasure,  sir. 


326  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

Mr.  Valdingam:  Here  is  the  point,  then.  My 
daughter  appears  to  fall  in  love  with  every  young  man 
that  strikes  her  fancy. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :   Keally— 

Mr.  Valdingam  :  She  may  even  fall  in  love  with 
yoH. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    Extraordinary ! 

Mr.  Valdingam  :  Your  course,  therefore,  will  be  to 
draw  from  her  some  decisive  manifestation  of  this  ab- 
normal amativeness.  You  will  not  be  slow  to  discover 
how  deep-rooted  the  disease  is.  .  .  .  By  the  way, 
would  you  object  to  meeting  my  daughter  this  even- 
ing ?  I  shall  not  allow  you  to  return  to  New  York  to- 
night, you  know. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    I  am  wholly  at  your  service. 

Mr.  Valdingam  (ringing  for  Richard j :  So  much 
the  better.  (E^iter  Richard,  who  removes  the  dining 
table.)  Now,  if  you  will  join  me  in  a  cigar  and  a  stroll 
in  the  garden,  we  can  talk  more  at  our  ease  on  this 
painful  subject.  (They  light  their  cigars  and  pass  out 
into  the  garden.  Enter  from  l.  at  the  same  time  Su- 
s.ysr,  followed  l>y  Rose.J 

Susan  :    Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that  ? 

Rose  (laugliingly) :  I  am  very  sorry  for  poor  Dr. 
Van  Hyde.  Suppose  I  should  be  attacked  with  a  ten- 
der passion  for  him,  after  all. 

Susan:  Don't  be  ridiculous,  Rose.  Between  you 
and  me,  however,  it  seems  to  me  that  this  mad-doctor 
here,  who  is  said  to  be  so  very  clever,  might  be  turned 
to  some  good  purpose.  I  begin  to  think  that  your  fath- 
er needs  looking  after. 

Rose:  Oh,  papa  is  harmless.  At  any  rate,  wait 
awhile.  At  present,  you  must  remember,  I  am  Dr.  Van 
Hyde's  patient. 

Susan  :    Nonsense ! 

Rose:  I  intend  that  he  shall  practise  on  me,  cer- 
tainly, especially  if,  as  you  assert,  he  is  young  and 
handsome.    Or,  let  us  say,  I  will  experiment  on  him. 

Susan  :    You  are  out  of  your  senses. 


A  GENTLE  MANIAC.  327 

Rose  :  Not  a  bit.  Plas  not  Dr.  Van  Hyde  come  all 
the  way  up  here  to  see  me,  to  examine  mef  Shall  I 
disappoint  this  luminary  of  the  medical  profession? 
.  .  .  Never !  .  .  .  Now,  Aunt  Susan,  you  must 
let  me  have  my  own  way  this  time.  No  harm  shall 
come  of  it,  I  promise  you.  And  who  knows?  Per- 
haps I  may  be  able  to  give  Dr.  Van  Hyde  points  for 
his  next  clinic. 

Susan  :  Well,  do  as  you  please.  But  I  fear  the 
worst.  More  than  one  sane  creature  has  been  clapped 
into  a  lunatic  asylum  by  some  fool  of  a  doctor. 

Rose  :  Tell  me  something  more  about  this  Dr.  Van 
Hyde. 

Susan  :  I  've  told  you  all  I  know  .  .  .  young, 
handsome,  and,  I  doubt  not,  a  gentleman ;  very  pleas- 
ant mannered,  so  far  as  I  could  see. 

Rose  (musingly) :  Young,  handsome,  pleasant  man- 
nered. Not  the  traditional  doctor,  evidently;  just 
such  a  doctor  as  I  might  naturally  fall  in  love  with 

Susan  :    Rose,  you  amaze  me ! 

Rose  :  But  I  am  not  going  to  fall  in  love  with  him. 
.  .  .  (After  a  pause,  and  mischievously.)  Indeed, 
I  have  some  one  else  in  my  thought  at  this  moment. 

Susan  :    What  do  you  mean  ? 

Rose  :  Don 't  blame  me  if  I  am  a  little  human.  Have 
you  never  met  a  man.  Aunt  Susan,  who  pleased  you  as 
no  other  man  had  ever  pleased  you  before  ? 

Susan:     Perhaps  I  have;  but  it  was  mighty  long 

ago. 

Rose  :  Call  me  foolish  if  you  will ;  I,  too,  have  met 
such  a  man. 

Susan:    You!  Where? 

Rose:  You  won't  be  cross  if  I  confide  in  you? 
Besides,  it's  not  likely  that  I  shall  meet  my  Romeo 
again— for  he  was  a  Romeo,  Aunt  Susan, 

Susan  :     There  are  no  Romeos  nowadays. 

Rose:  Oh,  yes,  there  are— in  trousers.  Now,  let 
me  tell  you  my  experience  with  him.  It  was  not  a  bit 
romantic.     Last  Monday,  as  you  remember,   I  was 


328  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

shopping  in  New  York.  To-day  is  Friday.  (With 
mock  gravity.)  An  eternity  from  then  till  now. 
Well,  as  I  was  rushing  through  a  quiet  side 
street,  in  haste  to  catch  a  car,  suddenly  I  slipped  and 
fell.  My  parasol  went  in  one  direction,  my  fan  in 
another,  my  purse  in  still  another,  and  three  parcels 
I  was  carrying  in  three  others.  To  make  matters 
worse,  I  had  sprained  my  ankle  slightly,  and  was 
ready  to  cry  with  pain  and  mortification.  Imagine 
the  situation,  Aunt  Susan.  There  I  sat  in  a  heap  on 
the  pavement,  surrounded  by  my  possessions. 

Susan  {grimly) :  I  hope  you  didn't  sit  there  long? 
Rose  :  How  unsympathetic  you  are !  .  .  .  No, 
I  did  not  sit  there  long.  For  a  second  I  was  paralyzed. 
Afterward,  as  I  prepared  to  rise  with  proper  dignity, 
I  heard  a  man's  voice— a  particularly  agreeable  man's 
voice— close  at  my  side.  It  said:  ''Permit  me  to  as- 
sist you,  madam."  Before  I  could  reply,  the  owner  of 
the  voice  lifted  me  to  my  feet.  Oh,  he  did  his  part 
gallantly !  I  was,  of  course,  too  confused  to  thank  him 
at  once.  But  he  did  not  stop  for  thanks.  He  simply 
picked  up  my  purse,  my  parasol,  and  my  parcels,  and 
after  placing  them  in  my  hands,  and  inquiring  very 
gently  whether  I  was  hurt,  lifted  his  hat  courteously 
and  passed  on.  Only  for  a  single— a  single  instant. 
Aunt  Susan,  our  eyes  met. 

Susan  :    What  then,  pray  ? 

Rose:    Nothing.  I  limped  to  the  car.    That's  all. 

Susan  :    And  this  stranger  is  your  Romeo !    Rose, 
you  are  a  goose.    Put  him  out  of  your  head. 

Rose  :    How  can  I  put  him  out  when  he  persists  in 
staying  in?    There,  now  you  have  my  story. 

Susan  {starting  at  the  sound  of  footsteps) :    Hush ! 
I  think  your  father  and  the  doctor  are  coming  back. 
{Susan  busies  herself  ivith  one  of  the  lamps  at  l.,  atid 

Bose  takes  up  a  hook  and  pretends  to  read.    Her 

face  is  turned  aivay  from  the  right  entrance.    Enter 

Mr.  Valdingam  and  Dr.  Van  Hyde.) 

Mr.  Valdingam  :    Doctor,  I  rely  upon  you  now  with 


A  GENTLE  MANIAC.  329 

the  utmost  confidence.  What  a  knowledge  is  yours! 
How  vast,  how  intricate  a  subject  is  this  of  insanity ! 
I  marvel  that  you  should  have  learned  so  much  in  so 
few  years.  I'll  wager  that  you  have  not  passed  your 
thirty-fifth  birthday. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    You  have  made  a  nearly  correct 
guess,  Mr.  Valdingam.    I  am  in  my  thirty-sixth  year. 
But  I  have  enjoyed  unusual  experience. 
{At  the  sound  of  Dr.  Van  Hyde's  voice,  Rose  half- 

rises,  then  hides  her  face  with  her  hook.) 

Rose  (aside):  Good  gracious!  I  have  hoard  tha/t 
voice  before.  {She  glances  over  the  edge  of  the  hook 
toward  the  two  men.)  It  is  he.  {She  slips  out  of  her 
chair,  and  joins  Susan.  The  hacks  of  the  two  women 
are  turned  to  the  men,  ivho  are  conversing  sotto  voce.) 
Aunt  Susan ! 

Susan  (starting) :    What's  the  matter? 

Rose  :    It  is  he. 

Susan:    He?    Who's  he? 

Rose  :    The  same. 

Susan:    Who's  the  same? 

Rose  :    The  doctor. 

Susan:    What  of  the  doctor? 

Rose  :    The  doctor  is— Romeo  1 

Susan  (dropping  the  hook  which  Rose  had  passed 
to  her) :    Lord ! 
{At  the  sound  of  the  hook  falling,  Mr.  Valdingam 

turns  and  perceives  the  two  women.  Then  he  catches 

De.  Van  Hyde  hy  the  arm.) 

Mr.  Valdingam  (to  the  doctor) :  She  is  here.    Pre-- 
pare  yourself. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (glancing  at  the  hacks  of  the  wom- 
en):    Your  daughter? 

Mr.  Valdingam  :  Yes,  my  daughter.  A  splendid 
opportunity  for  you,  doctor.  I  will  see  to  it  that  you 
are  left  alone  with  her.  Talk  to  her.  Watch  her 
closely.  Discover  all  you  can.  But  first,  I  will  intro- 
duce you  to  her.  (He  goes  over  to  l.,  while  Dr.  Van 
Hyde  stays  quietly  at  r.  He  approaches  his  daughter.) 
Rose! 


330  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

Rose  (turning  toward  Mr.  Valdingam)  :  Yes,  papa. 

Mr.  Valdingam  :  May  I  introduce  to  you  a  dear,  a 
very  old  friend  of  mine  ? 

Rose  (aside) :    A  very  old  friend !     (To  Mr.  Val- 
DiNGAM.j     Certainly,  papa. 
(She  advances  toward  center  of  stage.    Susan  glares 

at  Mr.  Valdingam,  liut  does  not  come  forward.) 

Mr.  Valdingam  (to  Dr.  Van  Hyde)  :    Doctor ! 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (advancing  toward  Rose) :  At  your 
service,  Mr.  Valdingam. 

Mr.  Valdingam  :    May  I  introduce— 
(At  this  instant,  Dr.  Van  Hyde  ohtains  a  full  view 

of  Rose,  who  regards  him  demurely.    He  stumMes 

hack  in  amazement.) 

Dr.  Van  Hyde:    This— this— is  your  daughter? 

Mr.  Valdingam :  You  appear  surprised?  (Aside.) 
I  knew  it.    I  knew  it. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    Not  surprised— but— 

'Mr.  Valdingam  :  I  understand  thoroughly.  (Aside 
to  the  doctor.)  Didn't  I  tell  you  so?  (To  Rose.) 
Rose,  this  is  my  friend,  Dr.  Van  Hyde.  For  certain 
reasons,  my  child,  he  is  anxious  to  have  a  little  chat 
with  you. 

Rose  (innocently):    With  me,  papa? 

Mr.  Valdingam  :    That  is  to  say    .    .    .    Well,  no 
matter,  I  will   explain  later.      (Turning  to  Susan.) 
Susan!     (Susan  advances  toward  center  very  stiffly.) 
Dr.  Van  Hyde,  this  is  my  sister,  Miss  Valdingam. 
(Dr.  Van  Hyde  hows  to  Susan  in  an  embarrassed 

manner.) 

Susan:     Glad  to  know  you,  sir. 
(She  retires  to  l.,  accompanied  hy  Rose.    Mr.  Val- 

dingham  rejoins  Dr.  Van  Hyde  ai  r.  ) 

Mr.  Valdingam  (to  Dr.  Van  Hyde)  :  Did  I  not 
manage  that  skilfully? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (dryly):    Most  skilfully. 

Mr.  Valdingam:  The  reet  is  simple  enough.  Re- 
main where  you  are,  and  I  will  retire  with  Susan. 
Then  you  will  have  the  field  to  yourself.  Do  you 
agree  with  me  ? 


A  GENTLE  MANIAC.  331 

Dr.  Van  Hyde:    Perfectly. 
(Mr,  Valdingam  goes  over  to  h.,  consults  in  an  un- 
dertone with  Susan,  and  then  exeunt  Mr.  Valding- 
am and  Susan  at  l.     Dr.  Van  Hyde   and   Rose 

are  thus  left  alone.    Their  hacks  are  turned  to  each 

other. 

Rose  (aside) :    He  recognized  me. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (aside) :  I  wonder  if  she  recognized 
me. 

Rose  (aside) :  What  shall  I  do— play  the  mad  wom- 
an? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (aside):  This,  then,  is  the  end  of 
my  dream.    I  have  fallen  in  love  with  a  lunatic. 

Rose  (aside):  I  suppose,  to  carry  out  papa's 
wishes,  that  I  ought  to  make  love  to  him. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (aside):  How  did  she  come  to  be 
alone  in  the  city  last  Monday  ?  She  must  have  escaped 
somehow.    She  is  guarded  with  too  little  caution. 

Rose  (aside) :    Why  doesn't  he  speak? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (aside)  :  She  is  more  enchanting 
than  ever.  How  can  so  sweet  a  creature  be  condemned 
to  such  misery?  {He  turns  and  confronts  Rose.)  Miss 
Valdingam ! 

Rose  (without  moving):    Yes? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (more  softly) :    Miss  Valdingam ! 

Rose  (turning  slowly,  and  half  looking  at  him): 
Dr.  Van  Hyde ! 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    Will  you  not  sit  down  ? 

Rose:  Thank  you,  I  will.    (She  seats  herself  at  h.) 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (still  standing,  and  speaking  grave- 
ly) :    Now— 

Rose  (carelessly) :  Oh,  you  may  as  well  take  a  chair 
yourself. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (seating  himself  at  l.)  :  With  your 
permission. 

Rose:    Well? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    I  was  saying— 

Rose:    Were  you?    I  didn't  hear  it. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    I  was,  rather,  about  to  say— 


332  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

Rose  (laughing) :    This  is  very  odd,  is  it  not  ? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    What,  may  I  ask,  is  odd  ? 

Rose:    This  tete-a-tete. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    Professionally  speaking — 

Rose  :  As  a  rule,  you  know,  it  takes  two  old  friends 
to  make  a  tete-a-tete.  Now,  it  must  be  admitted  that 
we  are  not  old  friends,  are  we  ? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :  I  trust  that  we  shall  be  very  good 
friends  soon. 

Rose  :  Oh,  my  father  has  recommended  you,  and  I 
may  accept  you  on  that  basis.  Are  you  from  New 
York? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde:    Yes. 

Rose  :    And  you  are  a  physician  ? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :     I  practice  a  little. 

Rose  :  I  suppose  papa  is  to  be  one  of  your  patients. 
He  has  not  been  strong.    How  is  he,  doctor  ? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (aside):    She  is  very  insistent. 

Rose:  Why  don't  you  answer  me?  Is  there  some 
serious  complication? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (hurriedly) :  Nothing  serious,  I  as- 
sure you.  .  .  In  fact,  I  have  had  no  conversation 
with  Mr.  Valdingam  about  his  health. 

Rose:  Then  what  about?  .  .  .  Oh,  I  forgot. 
You  are  very  old  friends. 

De.  Van  Hyde  :  Very  old  friends.  (Aside.)  There 
is  a  strange  gleam  in  her  eyes.  Poor  thing!  Poor 
thing ! 

Rose:  It  is  singular  that  he  had  never  spoken  of 
you  before  to-night.  .  .  (After  a  pause  of  reflec- 
tion.) Do  you  know,  I  feel  that  you  called  to  see  me, 
as  well  as  papa.    Am  I  right  ? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :  Partly  right,  Miss  Valdingam.  .  . 
And  I  am  very  glad  to  have  met  you  at  last.  I  have 
heard  so  much  about  you. 

Rose  :  Still,  you  had  never  seen  me  until  this  even- 
ing? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (\taken  hy  surprise) :  Oh,  I  had  . 
i    .     (Aside.)     What  a  silly  business  I  am  making 


A  GENTLE  MANIAC.  333 

of  this!  She  looks  so  perfectly  sane  and  charming 
that  I  am  tempted  to  forget  my  mission.  (To  Rose.) 
It  seemed  to  me  almost,  I  mean,  that  I  had  met  you— 
I  don't  know  where. 

Rose  (aside):  This  is  delicious.  I  must  punish 
him.  (Advancing  toward  him  with  an  air  of  anger.) 
Sir,  I  perceive  that  you  wish  to  mislead  me.  Your 
presence  here  has  a  professional  object.  Do  not  deny 
it. 

De.  Van  Hyde  :    I— I— do  not  deny  it. 

Rose  (tragically):    Connected  with  myself  ? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (aside) :  Suspicious  of  a  stranger ! 
Restless  under  medical  observation!  These  are 
symptoms !     .     .     .  I  must  try  to  divert  her  thoughts. 

Rose  :    I  repeat,  sir— connected  with  myself  ? 

De.  Van  Hyde  :  Pray,  Miss  Valdingam,  do  not  ex- 
cite yourself. 

Rose  :  Conceal  nothing !  I  am  wretched,  annoyed, 
persecuted.  I  am  under  a  wicked  surveillance.  Do 
you  imagine  that  I  'm  blind  ?  I  understand  their  plot. 
(Pointing  to  door  at  l.)  And  you,  too,  are  in  the 
plot.  But  I  shall  prove  to  you— at  once,  at  owce- that 
I  am  as  rational  as  they,  as  you.  (In  a  quieter  tone.) 
Now,  have  you  any  questions  to  ask  me  ? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (somewhat  confused) :  Do  not  take 
the  matter  so  seriously,  Miss  Valdingam.  Even  a  ra- 
tional person— not  excepting  myself— may  have  the- 
ories, hallucinations,  dreams — 

Rose  (wildly) :  Dreams !  I  have  astonishing 
dreams,  doctor.  They  come  to  me  when  I  am  awake, 
when  I  seem  to  be  awake.  Strange  noises  then  rattle 
in  my  brain,  and  I  grow  dizzy.  In  any  other  person, 
these  dreams  might  be  ideas.  .  .  .At  other  times, 
the  world  of  my  fancy  is  crowded  with  men,  myriads 
of  men. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (aside):  Her  father  was  not  mis- 
taken. 

Rose:  Yes,  young  men;  graceful  men;  men  who 
flatter  and  adore  me !  .  .  .  Totally  unlike  the  men 
I  see  when  I  escape  to  New  York. 


334  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    Ah,  she  escapes ! 

Rose:  Then,  too,  I  have  visions  of  matrimony.  I 
feel  a  wild  desire  to  propose  to  every  man  I  meet. 
Have  you  ever  proposed,  doctor  ? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    Never. 

Rose:  Why  don't  you?  You  can  not  have  lacked 
opportunity. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    I  fear  that  I  have. 

Rose  :  You  are  young,  rich,  good-looking,  and  suc- 
cessful. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (aside) :    Heavens ! 

Rose  :    You  should  marry. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    I  have  not  the  time— 

Rose  :  There  is  no  time  like  the  present.  .  .  We 
are  alone. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (nervously) :    Alone? 

Rose:  Yes;  papa  and  Aunt  Susan  were  discreet 
enough  to  retire.    Do  not  be  afraid. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde:    Afraid  of  what? 

Rose  :  Of  proposing  to  me.  If  you  are,  I  will  pro- 
pose to  you. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (aside) :  I  must  humor  her.  But  it 
is  distressing  to  do  so.  (To  Rose.)  You  would  marry 
me? 

Rose  :    Oh,  yes ! 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    You  like  me  well  enough  for  that  ? 

Rose  :    I  liked  you  at  first  sight. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :  But  you  have  barely  an  acquaint- 
ance with  me. 

Rose:  So  much  the  better.  If  my  acquaintance 
with  you  were  more  intimate,  I  might  not  be  willing 
to  marry  you. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde:  You  can't  love  me,  however;  and 
what  is  marriage  without  love? 

Rose:    Why  can't  I  love  you? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde:  Love,  my  dear  child,  love  is  the 
tenderest  passion  of  our  nature.  It  is  the  flower  of 
life.    It  is  the  affinity  of  souls.    It  is— 

Rose  (passionately) :    It  is— it  is. 


A  GENTLE  MANIAC.  335 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (aside) :  If  I  could  only  believe  that 
she  might  learn  to  love  me— that  she  had  not  loved 
forty  other  men— that  she  was  not  a  monster  in  the 
guise  of  a  siren !  Yet  I  will  do  my  duty,  cruel  as  it  is 
to  me.    (To  Rose.)    But  your  father? 

Rose  :  Papa  has  never  objected  to  my  loving  any- 
body. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde:  Then  you  have  loved  somebody 
else? 

Rose:    Yes,  indeed.    Eighteen. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    Eighteen ! 

Rose:  Eighteen  lost  opportunities.  You  are  the 
nineteenth.  If  you  refuse  to  take  me,  I  shall  have  to 
look  out  for  my  twentieth.  Perhaps  you  can  intro- 
duce me  to  one  of  your  friends. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde:  Suppose— suppose— I  consent  to 
marry  you;  that  is  to  say,  suppose  you  consent  to 
marry  me.  How  can  I  be  sure  that  you  won't  fall  in 
love  with  your  twentieth— as  you  call  him— to-morrow. 

Rose  :  You  can 't  be  sure.  Love  has  wings  like  a 
bird.  Its  natural  action  is  flight.  How  can  one  help 
loving  ? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (tenderly):  I  should  not  wish  to 
share  your  love  with  another  man. 

Rose:    I  don't  understand  you. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (aside) :  This  is  the  most  remarka- 
ble case  in  my  experience.  The  girl  is  clean  daft  on 
one  subject.  And  yet,  somehow,  I  am  half  inclined  to 
take  her  at  her  word.  I  might  succeed  in  curing  her 
of  her  mania;  I  might  transform  her,  create  a  new 
woman  in  this  unhappy  spirit ;  I  can  not  abandon  her 
to  a  wretched  fate.  (To  Rose.)  You  say  you  do  not 
understand  me? 

Rose  :  I  can't  understand  why  I  should  not  be  al- 
lowed to  love  whomever  I  please. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde:  The  law  declares  that  you  must 
love  but  one  husband. 

Rose  :  As  I  could  only  have  one  husband  at  a  time. 
I  might  still  love  some  one  who  was  not  my  husband. 


336  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (crossing  to  r.  and  seating  himself 
next  to  Rose)  :  Don't  you  think  you  could  love  one 
man,  whose  devotion  to  you  would  be  tireless,  whose 
life  would  be  your  life,  whose  thought  would  be  always 
for  your  welfare  and  happiness ;  don 't  you  think  you 
could  love  this  man,  and  this  man  alone  ? 

Rose  (moving  away  from  him):  I  never  thought 
of  that. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (moving  toward  her  again):  Try, 
try,  my  dear  child,  to  see  things  with  my  eyes. 

Rose  :    I  have  a  pair  of  my  own,  thank  you. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (losing  himself  in  his  passion) :  Lis- 
ten to  me.  I  do  love  you,  and  I  want  you  to  love  me— 
but  not  as  you  love  other  men.  I  am  anxious  to  be 
your  friend,  your  very  best  friend.  I  want  you  to  look 
to  me  as  you  would  look  to  no  one  else.    I  want— 

Rose  (changing  her  manner  and  laughing):  You 
play  your  part  admirably.  Dr.  Van  Hyde. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (in  astonishment) :    Play  my  part ! 

Rose  :    You  have  just  asked  me  to  love  you  ? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    Yes. 

Rose  :    To  accept  you  as  my  very  best  friend  ? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    Yes. 

Rose  :  Then  I  wish  to  tell  you,  sir,  that  you  have 
been  trifling  with  me.  Your  love-making  is  purely 
professional.    It  is  a  kind  of  medicine. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (aside) :    This  is  a  hopeless  case. 

Rose  :  Furthermore,  I  have  convicted  you  of  false- 
hood. You  never  met  my  father  until  tonight.  You 
did  meet  me  last  Monday  afternoon,  in  New  York,  at 
2:25  p.  m. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    Miss  Valdingam ! 

Rose  (courtesying  to  him):  Permit  me  to  thank 
you,  dear  doctor,  for  your  kindness  in  picking  up  my 
parcels,  my  parasol,  my  purse,  and  myself.  I  did  not 
have  a  chance  to  thank  you  while  you  were  perform- 
ing that  unpleasant  duty. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    Then  you  remember  1 

Rose  :    How  could  I  forget  so  fascinating  an  adven- 


A  GENTLE  MANIAC.  337 

ture,  although,  to  be  sure,  we  crazy  women  are  apt  to 
have  defective  memories. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (aside) :  Have  I  been  a  fool  ?  (To 
Rose.)  I  may  as  well  confess  that,  when  I  saw  you  for 
the  first  time  here  tonight,  I  recognized  you.  But  I 
did  not  suppose  that  you  recognized  me. 

Rose  :  Which  proves  that  you  are  not  so  wise  a  doc- 
tor as  you  ought  to  be. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    Reallj^,  Miss  Valdingam— 

Rose:    Really,  Dr.  Van  Hyde— 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    I— I  do  not  know  what  to  say. 

Rose:  I  repeat— you  have  played  your  part  admir- 
ably. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :  How  can  you  accuse  me  of  playing 
apart? 

Rose  :  Sweet  duplicity !  Did  you  not  come  here  to 
minister  to  my  mind 's  disease  ? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde:  To  meet  you— to  learn  to  know 
you. 

Rose  :  Of  course.  Meanwhile,  by  way  of  illustrat- 
ing my  mania,  you  made  love  to  me. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    That  is— 

Rose  :  That  is— you  played  a  part.  And  you  were  so 
successful  that,  a  few  minutes  ago,  you  thought  I  had 
fallen  in  love  with  you. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde:  You  embarrass  me.  Miss  Val- 
dingam. 

Rose  :  A  doctor  should  never  be  embarrassed.  He 
should  keep  a  cool  head.  His  nerves  should  be  steady ; 
his  hand  determined.  Now,  let  us  be  entirely  frank. 
You  wanted  to  diagnose  me— to  analyze  me— perhaps 
to  hypnotize  me.    Have  I  been  a  good  subject  ? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (awJcivardly) :  An  admirable  sub- 
ject. 

Rose  :  And,  honestly,  what  do  you  think  of  my  ma- 
nia now? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (still  more  hewildered):  It  is  a 
very  gentle  mania. 

Rose  :  A  very  gentle  mania  ?  Nothing  worse  than 
that? 

3-32 


338  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    Nothing  worse ;  I  am  convinced. 

Rose  :  You  reassure  me.  But  let  me  tell  you,  in  re- 
turn, that  I  have  reason  to  be  grateful  to  you.  Dr.  Van 
Hyde.  It  may  be  that  I  am  matrimonially  mad.  Many 
persons  are.  Nearly  all  girls  are.  But  at  least  I  feel 
certain  that  I  shall  never  be  confined  in  an  asylum. 
You  would  not  let  them  send  me  to  an  asylum,  would 
you? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    No !    No ! 

Rose  :    Then  we  can  afford  to  be  good  f riend*. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    The  best  of  friends. 

Rose  :    We  need  not  talk  of  love  again  ? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (hesitatingly ) :    No. 

Rose  :  Because,  you  see,  though  you  are  a  man,  you 
are  also  my  doctor ;  and  a  patient  could  not  fall  in  love 
with  her  doctor,  could  she  ? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    Well,  it's  not  usual. 

Rose:  Then,  let  me  ask  you  a  question.  Do  you 
think  my  malady— it  is  a  terrible  malady,  I  suppose— 
can  be  cured? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    I  am  sure  it  can  be. 

Rose  :    Ah !  you  give  me  hope. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :  But  you  must  follow  my  instruc- 
tions carefully.  These  I  will  explain  to  you  later.  In 
the  first  place,  however,  you  should  try  to  exercise  a 
certain  amount  of  will  power.  When  you  meet  a  per- 
son—that is,  a  man — 

Rose  :    I  should  hate  and  despise  him. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :  Oh,  not  so  bad  as  that.  You  should 
avoid  him. 

Rose  :    Avoid  him,  I  see. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :  Then  you  could  hardly  fall  in  love 
with  him. 

Rose  :    Nor  marry  him. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    Of  course  you  need  amusement. 

Rose  :    Of  course.  . 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    Get  as  much  of  it  as  you  can. 

Rose  (aside) :    I  'm  getting  it. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :  Meanwhile,  I  will  have  a  talk  with 
your  father. 


A  GENTLE  MANIAC.  339 

Rose  :    Papa  will  do  anything  for  me. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde:    Then  we  have  little  to  fear.    .     . 
Now  (he  turns  to  upper  l.  )    I  know  you  must  be  tired. 
This  long  talk  has  fatigued  you.    I  will  call  Mr.  Val- 
dingam.     (He  is  about  to  open  the  door.) 

Rose  (suddenly) :    One  moment,  please. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (turning  to  her) :    Yes  ? 

Rose  :  Pardon  me,  I  am  not  in  the  least  fatigued.  I 
have— something  more  to  say. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    Indeed  ? 

Rose  :  Before  you  see  papa  again  .  .  .  Please 
sit  down.  (He  seats  himself  at  r.  She  stands  leaning 
against  table  at  l.)  We  have  had  quite  an  important 
little  chat,  after  all,  have  we  not  ? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (gravely) :  I  think  it  has  been  im- 
portant. 

Rose  :    For  me  T 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    For  you,  I  hope. 

Rose  :  And  during  this  conversation,  have  I  had— 
any  lucid  intervals  ? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :  Well,  candidly,  and  though  I  am 
what  is  called  a  specialist  in  brain  diseases,  I  should 
regard  your  mind  as  perfectly  normal  and  healthy, 
except— 

Rose  :    Except  on  the  subject  of  matrimony. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    Ye-s. 

Rose  :  Now,  suppose  I  should  assure  you  that  I  am 
not  in  the  least  bit  insane.  Would  that  be  characteris- 
tic of  insanity? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :  Few  persons  with  a  mania  suspect 
their  affliction. 

Rose  :  I  understand.  But  suppose— suppose— you 
had  been  deceived  ? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (jumping  to  his  feet) :  Is  it  possi- 
ble? 

Rose  :  Physicians  are  deceived  sometimes,  are  they 
not? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (seating  himself):  They  are  only 
human. 


340  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

Rose  (slyly) :    And  you  are  very  human. 

De.  Van  Hyde  (confxisedly) :    I  confess  it— tonight. 

EoSE :  That  is  why,  then,  you  have  been  so  easily 
deceived — tonight  ? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (jumping  to  his  feet  again):  You 
mean?— 

Rose:  That  you  have  actually  been  deceived.  I 
have  no  mania — not  even  a  mania  to  wed  all  the  young 
men  I  meet.  (Laughing  merrily.)  But,  of  course,  you 
won't  believe  me.  My  denial  is  only  a  symptom  of  ray 
dementia. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :  What  can  I  think  ?  Your  father 
told  me— 

Rose  :  Yes,  poor  papa  told  you  a  great  many  things. 
You  took  it  for  granted  that  what  he  said  was  said  with 
reason. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (moving  toward  her  eagerly):  And 
I  have  been— 

Rose  :  As  patient  as  a  saint  with  the  mad-cap  teas- 
ing of  a  foolish  girl,  and  gently  considerate  of  an  old 
man's  whims. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (joyfully):  Can  it  be  true?  Oh, 
Miss  Valdingam,  I  begin  to  look  upon  myself  as  the 
most  ridiculous  as  well  as  the  happiest  of  men. 

Rose  :  But  I  could  not  resist  teasing  you.  And  still, 
in  spite  of  this  confession,  I  have  one  mania— only 
one. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    A  gentle  mama  ? 

Rose:    Very  gentle,  as  you  have  said.    It  is  love— 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (advancing) :    Love ! 

Rose  (mischievously ) :    For  my  father. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (disappointedly) :    Oh ! 

Rose  :  He  is  a  good,  kind  father.  Since  my  moth- 
er's death  I  have  been  his  closest  companion.  Oh,  doc- 
tor, I  am  so  happy  that  you  have  come  to  our  house. 
It  is  my  father  who  needs  your  help,  your  sympathy. 
You  will  give  both,  I  know. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    It  is  your  father,  then  — 

Rose:     Who  is  partially  insane.     He  has  been  in 


A  GENTLE  MANIAC.  341 

this  condition  for  years.    His  chief  delusion  is  that  I 
am  insane. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    What  a  fool  I  have  been ! 

Rose:  Do  not  blame  yourself.  Have  I  not  done 
what  I  could  to  convince  you  that  papa  had  told  you 
the  truth.    .    .    .     Can  you  forgive  me? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde:  Forgive  you!  Can  you  forgive 
me? 

Rose  :    Let  us  forgive  each  other,  then. 

(Walkhig  to  the  ivindow  at  r.  and  looking  out.) 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (following  her) :  Miss  Valdingam— 
I- 

RosE  (turning  and  regarding  him  archly) :  Be  care- 
ful, sir !  Perhaps  you  are  even  now  mistaken.  Re- 
member how  cunning  we  maniacs  are ! 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (aside):  I  am  more  than  ever  in 
love  with  her.  How  beautiful  she  is.  Sane  or  insane, 
it  would  be  a  blessing  to  possess  her.  (To  Rose,  nerv- 
ously.)    Miss  Valdingam,  may  I  ask  you  a  question? 

Rose  (gently):    Yes. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :  You  remember  that  when— when — 
I  thought  you  were  not  quite— 

Rose  :    Balanced. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde:  I  had  the  hardihood— well— to 
speak  to  you  of  love. 

Rose  :    Certainly.    You  spoke  professionally. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    I  did  not  speak  professionally. 

Rose  (looking  out  of  the  windoiv) :    Oh,  indeed  ? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde:  I  spoke  with  sincerity— from  my 
heart. 

Rose  (ivith  mock  dignity):    Sir! 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :  I  must  tell  you  the  truth.  Since 
that  day — 

Rose  (smiling) :    Monday  at  2 :25  p.  m. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde:  Don't  laugh  at  me.  I  was  in  ear- 
nest a  few  moments  ago— I  am  in  earnest  now.  .  .  . 
I  love  you ! 

Rose  (ivith  agitation) :    You  love  me ! 

Dr.  Van  Hyde:  With  all  my  soul.  (He  seizes  her 
hand  and  kisses  it.) 


342  THE  DOCTOR'S  RED  LAMP. 

Rose  (drawing  her  hand  away  quickly) :  Hush ! 
Some  one  is  coming. 

Mr.  Valdingam  (from  behind  the  door):  Can  we 
come  in,  doctor? 

Rose  (in  a  whisper  to  the  doctor):  Pretend  that 
you  do  not  know  the  truth,  that  you  are  able  to  cure 
me. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (in  a  whisper) :  That  I  have  taken 
the  case? 

Rose  :    Yes. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :    For  life  ? 

Rose  :    We  shall  see.    But  speak  to  him. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (turning  to  l.)  :  Is  that  you,  Mr. 
Valdingam  ?  Please  come  in.  (Enter  Mr.  Valdingam 
and  Susan.) 

Mr.  Valdingam  (eagerly  and  secretly,  to  Dr.  Van 
Hyde):    Well? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (gravely) :  I  am  glad  to  be  able  to 
assure  you,  Mr.  Valdingam,  that  my  preliminary  ex- 
amination of  your  daughter  has  been  entirely  satis- 
factory. 

Mr.  Valdingam:  Sir,  I  am  overwhelmed  with  de- 
light. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde:  While  your  daughter  is,  without 
doubt,  suffering  from  certain  delusions— 

Mr.  Valdingam  (turning  to  Susan)  :  Do  you  hear 
that,  sister? 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :  Her  trouble  is  not  far  enough  ad- 
vanced to  occasion  anxiety. 

jMr.  Valdingam  :    Heaven  be  praised ! 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :  In  fact,  I  promise  you  that  within 
one  month  her  mind  will  be  as  clear  and  vigorous  as 
your  own. 

Mr.  Valdingam  (grasping  the  doctor's  hands):  Sir, 
I  regard  you  as  our  benefactor. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :  But  you  must  be  very  patient  and 
kind ;  and,  with  your  permission,  I  will  take  charge  of 
her.  My  plan  is  to  visit  her,  here  at  your  house,  twice, 
or  perhaps  three  or  four  times  a  week.  You  will  notice 
an  improvement  in  her  condition  very  soon. 


A  GENTLE  MANIAC.  343 

Mr.  Valdingam  :  Have  your  way,  doctor.  So  long 
as  my  child  is  saved  to  me,  that  is  everything.  (Turn- 
ing to  EosE.)  Rose,  my  pet,  I  hear  that  the  doctor  and 
you  have  become  fast  friends  already,  (Rose  joi7is 
them  at  l.  c,  and  Mr.  Valdingam  kisses  and  fondles 
her.) 

Rose  :  Oh,  yes,  papa,  Dr.  Van  Hyde  and  I  are  now 
very  good  friends. 

Mr.  Valdingam:    That's  right— that's  right.     Put 
your  trust  in  him,  my  child.    He  has  your  interest  at 
heart. 
(Mr.  Valdingam  turns  gleefully  to  Susan,  and  ih» 

two  converse.) 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  (to  Rose)  :  You  hear?  He  places 
you  in  my  care. 

Rose  :    I  share  his  confidence. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :  And— may  I  not  hope  to  be— your 
nineteenth  ? 

Rose  :     There  has  not  yet  been— a  first. 

Dr.  Van  Hyde  :  Shall  Ave  unite  then  in  a  study  of 
agreeable  possibilities  ? 

Rose  (archly) :    Won't  you  walk  with  me  in  the  gar- 
den ?    See  how  bright  and  beautiful  the  night  is !  .  .  . 
Come.    Perhaps  I  may  find  you— a  rose. 
(Rose  and  Dr.  Van  Hyde  exeunt  at  l.  as  the  curtain 

falls.) 

George  Edgar  Montgomery. 


/ 


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